


Astride A Pale Horse

by HigherMagic



Series: The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse [1]
Category: The Walking Dead & Related Fandoms, The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Animal Death, Bathroom Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Daryl Dixon, Canonical Character Death, Caretaker Daryl, Character Death, Drug Use, Drug Withdrawal, F/M, First Time Blow Jobs, Four Horsemen, Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse - Freeform, Gen, Gun Violence, Hallucinations, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Insane Rick, Insanity, Jealous Daryl Dixon, Jealousy, M/M, Murder, NaNoWriMo 2016, Past Lori Grimes/Rick Grimes, Prophetic Visions, Rickyl Writers' Group, Semi-Public Sex, Shooting, Slow Burn, Stabbing, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Top Rick Grimes, Violence, Visions, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-09-07 02:06:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 51
Words: 249,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8778919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigherMagic/pseuds/HigherMagic
Summary: Rick woke up from his coma knowing the Apocalypse was coming, but no one believed him. Months later he's been living in a care facility for the Criminally Insane with Daryl as his caretaker. When the Apocalypse hits, Rick knows exactly what to do to stop it: he must kill the other three horsemen. With Death his constant companion, Rick has to fight to keep his loved ones alive, convince the world that he's not crazy, and find War, Famine and Pestilence before they find him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story will be updated regularly (shocker, I know) on Tuesdays and Fridays.
> 
> Okay so guys!! I'm so excited for this story!! It was my NaNo for this year, it's 62k and counting but I was getting impatient and wanted to start posting it, so here's the first part. I really hope you guys like it, especially the RWG who have only gotten snippets so far.
> 
> This story will become explicit.

Rick likes Tuesday mornings the most. They're the days when everyone around him is buzzing with excitement. It's visitation day. Even Eddie, who hates anyone being in his personal space and will lash out to the point of extreme violence if that space is violated, gets jittery and enthusiastic when it comes time for the caretakers to groom him into something somewhat decent and give him the softer tracksuits that most of the residents put on when it comes time to receive visitors.

He walks into the room and smiles. There are several circular tables that would comfortably seat two, and the room is lined with little benches that can sit larger groups. There aren't many people here that get more than one visitor at a time, but Rick is special. Rick always gets three.

Someone to his left makes an angry, sad sound, and Rick turns his head to meet the eyes of James. James had been one of Rick's neighbors for a very long time during his stay, but then someone had spilled bleach a little too near him and he'd tried to lick it up and hadn't quite been the same ever since, and they'd moved him to the hallway of people that need more intense care. That are a little more of a threat on a day-to-day basis. Rick gives him a little nod in recognition and James' mouth twitches at the corners. His fingers curl and he leans forward as though about to try to say something to Rick, but then he jolts and turns away from him. James' mother is here, her face gaunt and pale, her hands trembling as much as her son's. She's talking about his father but the name brings no spark of interest to James' grey-blue eyes.

"Rick."

Rick turns away from James and his mother and his smile widens when he sees his caretaker. Well, technically all the staff there are caretakers for all the residents, but Rick likes to think that this man has become unofficially his.

"Daryl," he greets warmly, reaching out and letting his fingers trail across the man's wrist in a quick brush. Daryl's lips curl up and he bites the side of his lower lip, sharp eyes looking Rick up and down beneath his straight, dark hair. Rick makes a tutting sound. "You need a haircut."

"Yeah, like they have scissors in this place," Daryl says with a huff, but blows one of his stray bangs away from his face anyway. He crosses his arms over his chest. "Yer blockin' the way, Rick. Move over."

Rick ducks his head sheepishly and moves to one side, letting the people who have formed a line behind him shuffle in and to their respective guests. Daryl doesn't joke much. Rick has noticed that about him from his many months observing the many people who live here. But he jokes with Rick. He smiles around Rick.

Rick refrains from pointing out the special treatment that is Daryl's sense of humor. He knows as soon as he does, it'll be lost. "Are they here yet?" he asks. Since he was brought in he's had the same three visitors every Tuesday. There are some people who get visitors _maybe_ once or twice a year. There are some who don't get any at all. Rick pities them. It's not right to be alone in a place like this. Humans are meant to survive together.

Daryl nods. "Gave 'em a bench in the back. Come on."

Rick hooks his fingers into the hem of Daryl's scrub top and lets the other man guide him through the room. It is one of the few connections Daryl allows from people – to grab onto his clothes when he's guiding them somewhere. Most of the residents, when they do try to touch anyone, are trying to hurt them. Rick supposes it gives Daryl enough of a gap that he still feels okay.

Daryl slows and Rick lets his clothes go, his grin widening when he sees the familiar faces of his family. "Shane, Lori," he says, his voice heavy with affection. Lori gives him a tight, toothless smile, her arm wound tightly around the shoulders of Carl, their son. "Hi, Carl. How you doin'?"

"Hey, dad," Carl says, looking up with a wide smile. He's wearing Rick's old Sherriff's hat and he's missing the front tooth just to the right of the main two. At ten years old Rick knows that Carl's at the age where the baby teeth will start to fall out, but this is the first one he can remember seeing.

"Aww, hey!" he says, nodding to it. "The tooth fairy leave you anything cool?"

"I got a dollar!" Carl replies with a grin, making Rick laugh.

"Hey, brother." Shane is sitting on the other side of the bench from Lori and Carl, and smiles when Rick turns to him. Daryl has moved away, lost to the other moving bodies within the room. Rick knows Daryl's eyes see everything, as sharp and persistent as a hunter tracking down a deer. Daryl doesn't talk about his past with Rick, but Rick can guess from observation. He's always been very good at observation.

"Shane," he says again, clapping his hand into Shane's palm and sitting down next to him when Shane scoots over. Typically, residents aren't supposed to sit in the benches, since it's safer for them to be on separate stools so they wouldn't be able to hurt someone by moving a bench, or risk being triggered when trapped against a wall or similarly small space, but that's never been one of Rick's problems. He has a level head. Too level, some might argue, but that was for therapists to decide, he supposes.

Lori has that wide-eyed, meaningful look on her face. She does that when she has something that she needs to say but is hoping that if she thinks it loud enough it'll just _come_ to the other person's mind without her having to say it. Rick has never liked that about her, because it means she's allowed to go on the defensive immediately and twist her story to make her seem like the victim.

Rick sighs, tilting his head to one side and scratching at the back of his neck where his hair starts to curl. The large grey sweater he's wearing is soft against his wrists and contrasts with the harsh plastic of his wristband marking him as a resident (as if the outfit isn't enough).

"What's going on?" he says, trying to make sure he keeps his voice level and even. He doesn't want to scare either his wife, his son, or his best friend. They are the dearest people in the world to him that don't live in the facility. He knows Lori is nervous around him – rightfully she should be. He could snap her neck with very little effort if he ever got the idea to. She's always been a slim, flighty little thing. None of her strength is physical.

"Is there a vending machine or something that Carl could go to?" Lori asks, tightening her arm around the boy. "I brought him here right before lunch. I'm sure he's hungry."

Rick smiles, but it's a tired thing. This conversation isn't going to be fun. "I think Daryl won't mind taking him," he says, and lifts his head to try and spy the man in the crowd. Daryl is sitting next to Eddie, a respectful distance away from his bubble, and playing what looks like Tic Tac Toe on a piece of paper with a crayon while they wait for Eddie's visitors.

Daryl's shoulders tighten a second before he looks up. He's most definitely a hunter, able to sense the gaze of others on him within seconds. His eyes meet Rick's and Rick raises his hand with a smile, beckoning him over. Daryl nods, finishing up the game with Eddie and coming over a moment later.

"Hey, Rick, what's up?" he asks, giving a nod of recognition to Shane, Lori and Carl. He even reaches over to give Carl a fist bump and the boy does, grinning toothily at Daryl. Rick's family visits often enough to recognize Rick's favorite caretaker.

"We were hoping you could show Carl to the vending machines," Lori says, her voice soft and a little too rushed as she makes to stand. Carl swings around the opposite side, though, and scoots between his mother's back and the back of another visitor at the next table to come to a halt at Daryl's side. Daryl raises an eyebrow, looking at Rick. "He hasn't had lunch today and I figured a place like this must have _some_ option?"

"…Sure," Daryl says after a second, resting his hand lightly on the top of Carl's hat. "Let's go, short-stop. I'll find you somethin' ta eat."

They leave with another wave from Carl that Rick answers, lifting his hand and letting his fingers curl in a goodbye. He smiles when he sees Daryl reach out to curl his fingers in Carl's shirt to make sure the boy doesn't stray too far while they're wandering around. This is, after all, not the safest place in the world for an unattended child who doesn't know how the residents think.

He turns back around and grins at Lori. "So, what's up?" he asks. He feels like he's trying to ask a wolf how its day was going – at best she's going to turn tail and hide behind her defensive strategies and averted eyes, at worst she's going to make Shane be the one to tell him whatever it is they need to tell him.

"Rick." She reaches out for him, her hands resting over the backs of his, and pets down his fingers like he's an agitated cat. Rick cocks his head to one side. "I had to come by to tell you…." Her eyes flash to Shane's, wide and nervous, before going back to land somewhere in the vicinity of Rick's nose. "Shane and I are getting married."

Rick blinks, his eyes automatically drawn to Lori's hands. No ring. Not even an engagement ring. He turns his hands so they're palm up and he can feel her heartbeat in his fingertips. She flinches from his touch, her fingers curling, and bites her lower lip.

Now that he thinks about it, she hasn't worn a wedding ring since he got sentenced here. He supposes that makes sense – there was a reputation to uphold back home. She couldn't be seen to remain loyal to someone like him.

He cocks his head the other way, breathing out. He isn't surprised. Of course he's not surprised. Shane is his best friend and Rick is…well, Rick isn't getting out of here any time soon, that's for damn certain. He's insane – at least, that's what everyone seems to think. Rick is insane and locked up here for the foreseeable future, and Shane is a good guy, and he's attractive enough for Lori, and Carl needs a somewhat available father figure, and Lori is probably hurting for money since she doesn't work and Rick's pension isn't nearly enough to keep up their kind of lifestyle.

"Rick." That's Shane's voice, low and quiet. He doesn't sound nervous, which is good, but he doesn't sound calm either. He sounds hurried, like Rick's reaction is the grand finale he came to see and he's getting impatient to see it. "C'mon, brother, say somethin'."

Rick closes his eyes and opens them again, before he draws his hands away and rests his fingers on the edge of the table. Lori pulls back, too, folding her arms across her chest like a shield.

"Do you have papers?" he asks, lifting his eyes finally. Lori blinks at him. "For us, you know?"

Lori nods, hesitantly.

"They ain't gonna give me a pen in here," Rick says, scratching the back of his neck again, "but I'm sure they'll think of somethin' so I can sign 'em."

"Rick -."

"You should buy her a ring," Rick says, nodding at Lori's hand as he looks over at Shane. He thinks he might be smiling, but he's not sure. "Lori deserves a nice ring."

Shane presses his lips together, one hand rubbing over his mouth. "Yeah, brother, I know. I'm gonna."

"Are you guys still gonna visit me?" Rick asks, looking between the two of them. He can't help the sadness that creeps into his voice. "I'd really miss ya if you stopped. And Carl, too. If you still want to come…"

"Of course." Lori reaches out again, brushing her fingers across Rick's, and he smiles. "Rick, I still love you. Of course we're still going to visit you. I just…didn't want to pretend anymore. Or make you think that this situation was one thing and it wasn't -."

"I get it." Rick laughs softly, sheepishly, smiling in that lopsided way that makes him look boyish and young. He spies Daryl and Carl's hat crossing the threshold of the door and back into the room. "Carl know?"

"Yeah," Shane says with another sigh. "Told him this weekend. He's seemed okay with it so far."

"He loves you," Rick says, nodding. There's no jealousy in his voice, no anger sinking low in his heart. He has had months of therapy and group sessions meant to combat the root of anger and try and break apart the building blocks of aggression that land most of the residents here, but that has never been Rick's problem. He has too much of a cool head, they'd say. He's dangerous, sure, but he's not angry. That's the part they can't figure out.

"Hey, dad!" Carl chirps, a smear of chocolate around his mouth when he runs up to Rick and throws himself into a hug. Rick grins, shoving his hat back so it dangles by the string around his neck, and kisses the top of his head.

"Carl," Lori scolds, her eyes wide. " _Please_ tell me you didn't just eat chocolate."

Carl pouts. "Daryl said I could!" he says, putting his hat back on and clambering onto the bench beside his mother. Daryl gives an unapologetic shrug, immune to Lori's disapproving glare.

"Visitin' hour's almost over," he says. "You guys stayin' for lunch?"

"No, I gotta get back to the station," Shane says, his voice heavy with apology. Rick smiles as they all stand and he pulls Shane into a one-shouldered hug for a moment, before patting his back and letting him go. Lori hugs him quickly, too, and gives him a light peck on the cheek before she herds Carl away, Shane bringing up the rear.

Rick watches them go, memorizing the way Lori's hair shines in the fluorescent light and the way Carl's hat swings back and forth, too large for his head. He catalogues the stretch of Shane's shoulder muscles in his shirt, the way Lori's ring-sized tan-line looks on her hands, the way Shane's neck is red at the back. He makes sure to remember Carl's laughter, and the way his grin looks missing that one tooth, because he is sure at that moment that he will never see all three of them the same way again.

 

 

 

"Good morning, Rick. How are you feeling?"

Rick scratches at the back of his neck, grimacing when his wristband gets caught on a curl and he has to twist his hand to get it loose.

He's always hated the color orange, and although the grey tracksuits aren't much better, at least they're a lot less offensive to the eyes. The orange color feels like it's more than just a color on the fabric, but like there's an extra layer of slime clinging to it as well. It makes him feel dirty.

"Alright," he says because he realizes it's been a few moments and he hasn't responded. He lifts his eyes to look at the kindly face of his main therapist. There is another woman who runs the group sessions but this man is where he goes for one-on-one time. If Rick were to ever face release, this man is the man he would go through to get that evaluation. His name is Doctor Woodmore. Rick likes him. His wife makes excellent chocolate chip cookies. "Signed the divorce papers this morning, so." He shrugs.

Doctor Woodmore makes a soft, sympathetic humming noise. It's completely unnecessary, Rick thinks, but he allows the man to think that he's being comforting. "I'm sorry to hear that. How long were you married?"

Rick shrugs one shoulder. "I, ah, we dated since high school. Married her about twelve years ago. We have a boy. He's ten now. Carl." Rick manages a smile, looking down. "He's a good kid."

"I know you're very proud of your boy, Rick," Doctor Woodmore says with a smile. "From what I've heard about him, you should be. Seems like a bright kid." He looks down at his little notebook, tapping a pen against the edge in six short, rhythmic taps. Always six times. Rick realized that about their third session in. "Are you worried how he'll take the news?"

Rick shakes his head. "He already knew when they told me. And his new dad's my best friend, he's always been around, so I don't think the transition will be hard." He closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath. "Which is, y'know. Good. I'm sure he already gets it rough at school 'cause'a me. Don't need him feelin' shitty about a new dad, too. Shane will be a good dad, and he'll make Lori happy, and be a damn better provider than I can. So that's good."

Doctor Woodmore regards Rick, his green eyes calculating. He's an overly-friendly looking man, with a well-fed beer gut and a clean-shaven face. He has a receding hairline and black hair around his ears. His fingers are thick and pale, his cheeks red like he's always warm. If the facility celebrated Christmas, he'd be the guy you'd want to play Santa.

"Rick, if you're not feeling good about this, you can tell me," he says, setting his pen down after another six quiet taps. His eyes are concerned and caring and Rick bears his gaze steadily. "Since you came to us I've sensed that you have trouble expression your emotions. You're a very level-headed man, Rick, which is great in your line of work, but I don't think that's very healthy considering your current situation. I can't help you if you don't open up to me, at least a little."

Rick smiles. It's lopsided, the left side of his mouth lifting higher than the right. " _Doctor_ ," he says, his voice level and steady, "you don't get it. I'm not mad. I get it."

Doctor Woodmore sighs. "Your best friend is marrying your wife, scarcely months after you were sentenced here. And let's not forgot how you wound up here in the first place, Rick. It's perfectly understandable that you might feel some anger, some anxiety, some loss of control -."

"I don't," Rick replies crisply, his smile widening. He rests an elbow on his thigh and puts his chin in his hand, twisting his head until his neck cracks, before straightening up again. He lifts his eyes to the cabinet above Doctor Woodmore's head. There's a bottle there, unlabeled, but Rick knows it's got whiskey in it. Daryl told him one time. More importantly, though, he can see the reflection of the clock in it. Doctor Woodmore doesn't like his patients to see the time, because he thinks that it makes them feel anxious or rushed. But Rick can see it because Rick's not a fucking idiot. "Our time's about up, now, isn't it? I should go."

Doctor Woodmore nods. "I'll call for someone," he says, standing as well.

Rick hums, remaining seated where he is on the comfortable couch in Doctor Woodmore's office. It's one of those classic lounge couches, the ones that you might expect to see in a copy of _Psychiatrist Chic Weekly_ , and the fabric is a deep red like old blood. Rick remembers blood, vividly. He knows what it looks like, what it smells like, how it feels when it coats his hands, how it tastes when picking it out of his fingernails days later.

The couch is familiar and friendly and Rick rests on it in a comfortable slouch until there's a knock on the door and his head perks up. He can see dark hair through the little window in the door and then the door is opening, revealing Daryl. He's wearing light blue scrubs today, his eyes a darker, complimentary shade as he nods at the doctor and then sets his eyes on Rick.

"Ready to go?" he asks, jerking his head back and Rick smiles, scrambling to his feet like an excited puppy, and holds onto the edge of Daryl's shirt as the man turns around to lead him out of the office.

"See you later, Doctor Woodmore!" Rick calls cheerfully as they exit, earning a snort of amusement from Daryl. He lets go once they round the corner and fall into step next to each other, Daryl standing slightly ahead on Rick's left. Doctor Woodmore's office is far away from the rest of the facility. In fact, it's in another building, and the walk back to the main rec room takes a solid seven minutes if they hurry. So, he hums and settles into a slow amble, knowing that Daryl won't hurry him.

"How's your day goin'?" Rick asks, running his hands down the side of his thighs. He keeps forgetting the jumpsuits here don't have pockets. Damn inconvenient, but after last month's incident with one of the cooks and Old Ken he can see why they don't take chances giving people places to hide things.

Daryl snorts again, looking up and over his shoulder to fix Rick with a disbelieving look. "Really?" he asks, shaking his head with another huff. " _'How's your day goin'?_ "

"Just makin' conversation," Rick says with an unapologetic shrug. He reaches out to trail his fingers along the waist-high belt of green paint lining the walls. "They say it's important to remember small talk. Never cared about small talk much. But, boy, do polite society love it."

"Ain't that the truth," Daryl says with a roll of his eyes, his shoulders shrugging as though pushing off some heavy thought. "Well, fine, my day's the same old as every other day. How about you?"

"Well." Rick reaches up and scratches the back of his neck. "I ain't married no more. So there's that."

At that, Daryl stops and turns to face Rick, his expression quietly sympathetic. "Shit, man, I'm sorry. That sucks," he says, his eyes averted and downcast like he's hoping his words will cover for what his face isn't saying. Rick knows Daryl never liked Lori, or Shane. Of course, he's too polite to say anything and has too strong a survival instinct to risk insulting a dangerous inmate, but Rick had always known.

Rick smiles, reaching out, his fingers curling just shy of touching Daryl's cheek. He knows that's not allowed. Daryl lifts his gaze, his eyes hidden and his face unreadable in the relative darkness of the hallway. Rick smiles and lets his hand drop.

"I understand why," he says instead, turning and continuing their trek down the long hallway that will lead to the outside. Daryl is quick to fall into step next to him, this time walking just behind Rick, on his right. As though he is merely following. Rick smiles to himself and doesn't comment on it. "The money she'd be getting from my medical discharge isn't nearly enough to support her, let alone Carl, and Lori's not the kind of woman who gets a job. Shane's paycheck will keep them in the house, at least. Keep them nearby."

Daryl gives a non-committal grunt of agreement. "Guess that's one way to look at it," he admits. "Don't know how I'd react to findin' my guy's been fuckin' someone else behind my back."

Rick stops, turning to Daryl with a curious look. It's the most honest, open piece of information Daryl has ever given him about himself. "You have a boyfriend?" he asks, his voice neutral. He hopes it doesn't come across as condemning – throwing stones over apparent homosexuality. That'd be a trick – a murderer judging a sodomite.

Daryl's face goes red, and then white as he realizes what Rick has figured out. "Well, no," he admits. "I don't have a boyfriend. Don't really want one with these kinds'a hours. But…I'm just sayin', in your situation, I'd be pissed."

Rick laughs, and this time he does touch Daryl – he lets his hand rest on Daryl's shoulder, just for a moment, squeezing and then letting go. "Oh, Daryl, trust me. There are a lot worse things than having your best friend shack up with your wife," he says, his voice bright with humor. "I feel no possession over Lori. She is an adult and can do as she pleases. _Free will_. Isn't that the name of the game?"

Daryl nods, falling into step behind Rick as he starts walking again. "I guess."

"Now, if they ever take Carl from me…" At that, Rick grows solemn, his voice getting rough and dark. "That'll be a different conversation. But they promised."

"I'm sure they won't," Daryl says quietly, reaching out to brush his knuckles against the bare skin of Rick's arm. "Seemed amicable enough, right? They got no reason to keep your boy away."

Rick smiles, his shoulders relaxing, and he nods to himself. "Yes. I suppose you're right," he concedes, mostly because he knows that if he doesn't the worried, dark shade of blue in Daryl's eyes won't go away. Daryl has expressive eyes, a myriad of shades of them to match the ocean. Rick knows most of the emotions in them by now. He wonders if Daryl can read his in the same way.

They break out into the open air. The sun is shining, birds winging above their heads, trilling brightly. Rick takes in a deep breath, and sighs.

 

 

 

It's ten minutes before lights out. On Thursday nights, it's a movie night, and tonight it had been one of his favorites, the Disney version of _Robin Hood_. That rooster bard always gets him; he doesn't know why.

Daryl leads him back to his room and gives him a lazy salute as he walks inside. Rick grins as the door locks behind him. His room is sparse and clean, a cot in one corner and a toilet and sink in the other. At one point he'd tried putting a splash of color on the white walls but he guesses the idea behind this place is that you're not meant to be here forever. They want you to get _better_. They frown upon personalization or any attempt at settlement in this place.

He goes over to the sink and twists the tap, whistling the rooster's tune to himself as it fills with cold water, and bends down to splash some on his face before he turns the tap off. It drips down into the little pool of water at the bottom of the metal.

 _Drip_.

 _Drip_.

Rick braces his hands on either side of the basin, his eyes falling closed as he listens to it.

 _Drip_.

Slower, now, as the water stuck on the edge of the faucet runs dry.

 _Drip_.

He opens his eyes, looking at how the water ripples with each disturbance. It ripples out to the edge in fine lines and reminds him of blood running along wood. He opens his mouth and breathes out, before he spits into the basin. His fingers curl on the edge of it.

 _Drip_.

He should stop biting his nails. His fingertips hurt where the metal is cold.

"Five minutes, people! Lights out in five!"

Rick sighs and lifts his head as the water starts to drain. They don't allow mirrors in the cells, not real ones like he had at home. They're too easy to smash and attack with, he supposes. But they do have sheets of metal, polished to a shine and bolted to the wall. He can see enough of himself to tell it's him.

He blinks, the frost biting at his fingertips running up his arms. His skin pebbles with goosebumps, his neck starts to get tight as the cold slithers up his spine. In the mirror, the darkness of his iris spreads out, overtakes his eye, sucks in the shadows around his face. They pool in his eye sockets and his mouth. His teeth show more prominently in his reflection, gleaming and bleached like bone on sand.

 _Drip_.

_Hello, Rick._

Rick blinks, and smiles at his reflection.

"Hello, Death."

 _You look thin_ , the mirror says, and Rick cocks his head to one side. The black shadows follow his eyes and he grins, baring his teeth when the black maw in the mirror widens as though snarling. _You look pale_.

"I look like you," Rick replies. "I _am_ you."

 _Yes_.

Rick smiles again.

_It is soon. It will happen soon. You must be ready. Do you understand?_

"Yes," Rick says quietly. His heart aches at the thought of all the horror that is yet to come, but he is prepared for it. He knows his mission. He's cut all ties that he can afford and he's ready to go back out into the world and do what needs to be done. The mirror nods at him, face impassive as ever. "I'm ready."

Abruptly the lights go out, snapping the sight of his reflection away like a rubber band breaking. Rick gasps, shoving himself away from the sink, and warmth returns to his limbs like a heavy gust of wind, slicing through him so that he shivers. He turns away from the mirror, feeling anxious and hot in the pit of his gut. He's antsy, now. It's coming, _it's coming soon._

_Drip, drip._

_Drip._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow guys, the response to this has been absolutely amazing! Thank you so much, I'm so glad you guys are enjoying this I hope you continue to do so.
> 
> This chapter contains a character who participated in a mentioned shooting. It doesn't reference a real event, but I wanted to warn people just in case.
> 
> I'm sorry if there are any formatting issues - I posted this from my phone. Enjoy!

"Rick, you've been even more quiet than usual. Something on your mind?"

Rick lifts his head from where he had been scrutinizing the pattern of blue and brown flecks in the white floor of the main meeting room. This is where group therapy takes place and he doesn't really like it as much as one-on-one time with Doctor Woodmore. Most of this meeting is comprised of things embarrassingly similar to _small talk_ , and he doesn't have the patience for it.

He smiles and shakes his head as the attending therapist, Miriam, makes an encouraging gesture in his direction. "No. Sorry. Just thinking to myself."

James giggles to his right, bringing his knees up to his chest and biting down on his nails. Rick looks beyond him, through the window where he sees Daryl and a few of the other caretakers smoking outside of one of the emergency exit doors. Rick tenses, something protective surging in him. He has been jittery and full of energy since his conversation with Death. It could happen _at any moment_ , and if he isn't around then he can't protect Daryl from it. He's sure that Daryl is important to the mission, to the plan.

Miriam seems to notice where his eyes have strayed. "Have you made friends here, Rick?" she asks kindly. She's one of the people that get Daryl in trouble when she sees Daryl leading one of the residents with his clothes. Rick snaps his teeth together and glares at her. He nods and she smiles again. "That's good."

"Yeah," Rick grunts, averting his gaze away from hers after a moment. He doesn't have a grudge against her or anything. She's just doing her job, he supposes.

"What's the matter?"

"I don't like making friends," he says suddenly, the words snapping out of him before he can stop them. Her brows pull together and her mouth opens but he keeps speaking before she can ask her question; "I can't protect all of you. When the time comes."

"When the time comes." Across their circle, Jack lets out a hard, braying laugh. He walked into a mall armed to the teeth and started shooting. Killed fourteen people before trying to kill himself. Police got to him in time. Rick hadn't been on duty that day but he's sure he would have ended the son of a bitch then and there if it were up to him. "And when will that be, Mister Doomsday? You got a shittier calendar than them Mexicans, I'll tell you that."

"They were _Mayans_ ," James says, licking his lips. "Dumbass."

Jack growls, brown eyes flashing, and stands up so fast his chair rocks back and topples over. "Come over here and say that to my face, you little bitch," he threatens, taking a step forward.

Miriam lets out a worried noise, reaching out to click on her little remote that will call security. Rick stands up before she can and puts himself between Jack and James, who is still sitting on his chair and curled up into a ball.

"Jack," he warns, putting on his best old 'cop' voice, pressing a hand against Jack's chest. Jack is taller than he is, and broader in the shoulders. His jaw is square and dark with stubble, his hair buzzed short to his scalp. His brown eyes are wide and there's a knotted scar on the right side of his face from where he tried and failed to take his own life. Rick stares him down like a lion facing down another cat, daring it to make the first move and attack. Jack glares at him, enough ire in his eyes to relight a frozen forge, but doesn't try to step around Rick or push him to one side, either. Maybe he can see, can recognize in Rick the same ability that he had. The same quality that makes men take up arms and go to war.

He backs off with another low snarl, a threatening glare sent over Rick's shoulder to James. James, to his credit, doesn't even seem to notice. He's gone back to rocking in his chair and patting his hands in a soft, off-beat tempo against his knees. Rick smiles down at him and takes his seat.

Miriam clears her throat, her hand shaking. "I -. Thank you, Rick. For speaking up. And Jack, that was very good, controlling your temper like that."

Rick tunes her out, sensing that the focus has gone off of him for now. He looks towards James and the man stops his tapping, licking his lips and fixing Rick with his wide-eyed, earnest gaze. Rick knows James did some terrible things too – they all must have to land themselves in here – but all he can see of the man is a child-like soul. Maybe it's the bleach.

"You good?" he asks, raising his hand and lifting his thumb towards James, and James grins at him, toothy and wide, and pushes his thumb against Rick's.

Rick smiles again and lets his hand drop, before turning to fix his gaze back on the floor in the center of the circle. It's going to be sad to watch James die.

 

 

Rick doesn't sleep much. In his before life he had to be ready and able to get up at the drop of a hat, and it's a habit he has never quite been able to shake. In his line of work danger was around every corner and he has always tried to be a vigilant, observant man.

Sometimes, when he's alone and awake and staring at the ceiling and drawing patterns in the floating lights behind his eyes, he thinks about the night when his vigilance failed him. Only it hadn't been a night, but midday. An average day with a drug runner going a little too fast and a little too stupid to just pull over. One roadblock and one lucky bullet later, he'd been in a coma for months.

Only he hadn't been in a coma all that time. Rick knows because he remembers. You're not supposed to remember things that happen in a coma. Or at least that's what his doctors and nurses and the various therapists after that had told him. He's not supposed to know what happened to him, he had had brain activity but it had been weak. He didn't dream, they'd said. He didn't think.

But Rick remembers. He remembers because he roamed the halls of that hospital. He did it at night, when everyone else was sleeping. He counted the beds on his floor. He made note of the ones that were empty one night and full the next, the ones that had people in them one moment and when they had vanished.

He remembers the visions he'd had. The cloaked figure that had stood at his door every night. He remembers.

Rick starts awake, drawn by the sound of moment, and sits up. The lights in their rooms go off automatically but the lights in the hallway stay on, low and yellow like night lights strung along the ceiling. He hears moaning from down the hallway and shoves himself to his feet and plasters himself to the door where the little window is at face height.

The moaning is getting louder and more insistent. It sounds like Eddie, almost, when he starts shrieking because someone is too close. Rick whines, baring his teeth, and pushes his face as best he can against the shatterproof glass in the hopes of getting a better angle, but all he can see is the room opposite his and the ones on either side of that one.

He hears movement again, like a weird shuffling, and shrinks away from the window just as someone moves past it. His breath is caught in his throat and he feels cold, something like fear clawing at his lungs even though he's not sure it's sharp enough to be called fear.

A hand rests on his shoulder and Rick turns around. He can't see in the darkness, but he knows who's standing behind him. "Is it…now?" he asks, his eyes searching for the void in the darkness, the two points where the black becomes blacker, not just dismissing the light but swallowing it completely.

A soft laugh floats around him and settles on his shoulders like a great snake. _No_ , a voice replies, and a hand touches his chest. The fingers of it are long and cold as ice. _Not right now. Tomorrow._

Then the hand pulls away and Rick lets out a whimper of loss. The moaning has turned into a scream now. Rick turns back around and wants to press his face against the door again but something holds him back. Maybe it's thousand-year-old survival instinct. Maybe it's the cold wrapping around his heart. But he stands back. Very suddenly, the screaming goes silent. Rick hears another shuffle of feet like a great herd of shadows moving away. Warmth returns to the room again.

"Tomorrow," he whispers, and closes his eyes. He finds his bed again without seeing and rolls over so that he's facing the wall. He pushes his palm against it and lets the cold stone dry up the sweat on his hands. "Tomorrow."

 

 

Rick paces back and forth as the dawn starts to break. The birds haven't started their songs yet. Rick isn't sure they will. He paces back and forth, back and forth. To the mirror, but the mirror doesn't appear to him. Then to the door, but the door doesn't open. To his bed, so he can stand on it and gaze outside, but he sees nothing but the outdoor recreation area and the path that leads to the building where Doctor Woodmore's office is.

Nothing is moving. It's too quiet.

"It's too quiet," he says, shaking with anxiety. It's today, _it's happening today._ Rick climbs down from his bed and rubs his hands across his face. His cheeks and chin are itchy with hair, his lips are dry. He goes to the sink and cups his hand in the water and drinks a small mouthful but it does nothing to quench his thirst.

He turns and looks up at the tall white wall that makes up his cell by his bed. The toilet is made of metal, but the seat is made of plastic. He goes over to it, and lifts it, and then slams it down with enough force that it cracks.

Down the hall, someone shrieks. It's probably Eddie.

He does it again, and again, until the seat snaps into three parts, and the center part is small enough to hold. He picks it up and grabs it tight enough that the sharp edge cuts into his fingers, and his palm. He fixes his eyes on the wall again, the blood in his hand slick and wet.

"And then," he whispers, climbing up onto the bed, uncaring for the blood dripping from his hand onto the thin blanket. He moves the piece of porcelain to his left hand, letting his right hand bleed freely, and lifts his hand, fingers trailing along the wall. "the first of the seven seals was broken, and I heard a voice of thunder." He drags his fingers down through the divots between one brick and the next, painted with white. "'Come', he said. And I looked and saw a white horse, and he who sat on it had a bow; and a crown was given to him, and he went out conquering and to conquer."

He pulls his hand away, swallowing hard. The word _Pestilence_ gleams darkly in the dawning light, arcing through the window set high into Rick's other wall.

Rick sucks in a breath and runs the plastic shard across his palm again, drawing fresh blood. He barely feels the pain. "And when the second seal broke, I heard the second creature say 'Come'. And a red horse went out, and War sat upon him. A great sword was given to him, and he was granted the power to take peace from the Earth, and that men would slay one another at his will."

 _War_ joins its brother. Blood runs in thin little trails down the walls from the words. Rick hisses, shoving himself away from the wall and leaving a bloodied half-print behind. He hears another shriek from down the hall, and moaning. Like the souls in all of Hell screaming from down the hall.

"And…and I looked," he whispers, his eyes wide, hair damp with sweat. He drops the shard and runs his hands through his hair, smearing the blood, and jumps back onto his bed. "I looked and the third creature said 'Come'. I looked, and behold, a black horse; and he who sat on it…had a pair of scales in his hand."

 _Famine_. Rick's upper lip curls back. "Do not damage the oil and the wine," he whispers, drawing a line underneath the word, and then under _War_. "Do not damage the oil and the wine!"

Abruptly the shrieking stops. The lights come on within the rooms with a single alarm bell, telling everyone inside to get up. Rick's hand shakes as he stares at what he has written on the wall. Pestilence. War. Famine.

"…And when the Lamb," he whispers, rubbing his bloody fingers across his face. He colors in around his eyes and draws them on either side of his mouth, into a smile a skull would be proud of. "When the Lamb broke the fourth seal, I heard the voice saying 'Come'."

He backs away from the wall, almost falling off of his bed, and then moves around it, laying his hand against it. First the one soaked in his blood, and then the other. He drags them down and growls when the pain shoots up from his palms. He sucks in a deep breath.

"I looked," he says, "and saw a pale horse, and on him sat Death. Hades followed with him. And he was given authority over all, to kill with sword…" He looks up, snarling again, and wipes his hand through _War_ , smearing it. "And with famine." He crosses _Famine_ out, rubbing at it until the word is no longer recognizable. "And with pestilence, and by the wild beasts of the Earth."

 _Kill them all_.

He is shaking, his hands trembling as he brings them away from the wall to look up at what he had done. He can hear movement down the hall, the orderlies and caretakers coming to let people out and into the main recreation room. He hurries to the sink, turning the faucet on and hurriedly scrubbing at his hands and face to get rid of the red.

But no matter how hard he scrubs, his hand won't heal, and he keeps bleeding. He lets out a weak, frustrated sound, slamming his hands against the edges of the sink just as his door opens.

"…Rick?"

It's Daryl. Rick lifts his head to look at his caretaker. Daryl's eyes are wide, his mouth slightly open in shock. He has one hand out, as though to reach for Rick and make sure he's okay, but then his eyes see the wall. The words _War_ and _Pestilence_ , at least, are recognizable. Daryl knows enough about Rick's psychosis that he knows the significance of those words.

He looks back to Rick, his expression unreadable.

"I cut my hand," Rick says, holding his open palm out for Daryl to see. He's not excusing himself. In fact, it's probably the most honest confession he's ever made, but Daryl presses his lips together and sucks in a hard breath through his nose.

He steps back and looks first one way, then the other, checking the corridor. "Come on," he says, reaching out and beckoning Rick to come to him. "Let's get you to the showers."

 

 

Daryl takes Rick to the communal showers, which is little more than a room no bigger than Rick's old living room at home, with nozzles all around the edges and a single drain in the middle. He pushes Rick inside (residents aren't allowed to stay in the showers unsupervised) and closes the door behind them.

"Mighty stupid thing you did there, Rick," Daryl grunts as Rick starts undressing, uncaring for the blood he's smearing across his clothes as he lets them drop to one side and then steps into the main shower area. "You know I gotta report this to Woodmore."

"I know," Rick replies, tilting his head back as Daryl pushes the little lever to release the water so that it would beat down onto Rick in the shower. Rick sighs, rubbing his hands through his hair as the water starts to warm up, and he can feel his muscles slowly starting to relax. "It won't matter."

"That so?" Daryl grunts, his voice a little rougher than usual. Rick turns to him with a grin, finding Daryl blushing and pointedly averting his eyes. They're fixed somewhere on the wall, still keeping Rick in his periphery but not looking directly at him. "How you figure?"

"It's happening today, Daryl," Rick says, turning around to look at the man directly. Daryl's eyes snap to him, mostly hidden in the steam slowly filling up the room. Rick smiles at him, nodding once when Daryl shakes his head. "It is. I know it is. Today's the day."

"The apocalypse, huh?" Daryl says with another grunt, blowing his hair out of his eyes. He folds his hands over his chest and turns so that he's leaning with his back against the wall. "Sorry, Rick, I ain't religious and I don't think there'll be anythin' more Doomsday than, I dunno, the sun blowin' us all to shit. So, sorry, but I ain't ready to believe ya 'til I see it."

"That's okay," Rick says, his voice gentle and understanding. He rubs at his mouth and his face, scratching at the blood until it comes clean, and rubs his fingers through his hair until the water runs clear. His hand is still bleeding a little but he pays it no mind. He's sure Daryl's next stop will be somewhere they can patch up his hand.

He looks down at himself, scratching absently at the back of his neck. The knot of scar tissue where he was shot is still slightly discolored, off-pink and ugly just shy of his ribcage. The rest of him bears smaller scars, but nothing too serious. He's grown thin since his coma and then admittance into the facility, and he's sure he's a lot weaker than he used to be. He will have to work on that if he is to survive his mission.

He looks back up and finds Daryl watching him with that same wary, calculated gaze a sheep might spy a fox at the edge of their field. They know the foxes have no interest in them but a predator's a predator all the same. Daryl isn't a sheep though. Rick wouldn't like him nearly as much if he was.

Rick smiles at him. "I'm ready to come out now," he says, and Daryl nods and turns the water off. Rick shakes his hair like a dog and waits patiently while Daryl rummages around the corner of shelves for a clear set of clothes for him. It's the grey tracksuits like they use for visiting days and Rick shrugs on the more comfortable clothing gratefully. He picks up his old clothes and presses them to his palm to slow the bleeding until they get to the med center.

"Let's go," Daryl says gruffly, his cheeks still pink as he leads Rick out of the shower room. Rick has his left hand curled in the hem of Daryl's shirt as always, and whistles the rooster's song while they walk.

 

 

Rick gets his hand bandaged up with little fuss from their resident medic. She's a short, somewhat clumsy woman with tight, fiery ringlets of hair pulled up at the back of her head, her eyes hidden most of the time by sunglasses even when she's inside. When she smiles Rick can't help smiling back at her.

"Mister Grimes, this is the first time I've had you in here!" she chirps when he's all wrapped up, giving his wrist a friendly tap. "Hope I don't see you again!"

"Thank you, Gwen," Daryl says, gifting her one of his rare smiles, and she smiles back but Rick isn't sure if she's even looking at him, since her eyes are hidden behind her glasses. He doesn't like not being able to see her eyes. But it won't matter. She probably won't see much of anything soon.

"I have an appointment with Doctor Woodmore today, don't I?" Rick asks brightly as Daryl leads him out and towards the main recreation room.

Daryl nods. "Yeah, but I gotta tell him about that stunt you pulled this mornin', Rick. Before you go see him."

Rick hums. "Don't take too long, Daryl! Today's the big day!" he says brightly, waving when Daryl fixes him with a strange look, but the caretaker nods and leaves the room without another word. Rick looks around the room, taking in the current occupants. There are two caretakers near the door on the other side, and one cook behind the glass door that leads to the kitchens. Eddie is here, and Jack, and Reggie and Marcellus and Little Mike.

Rick cocks his head to one side when he spies James, sitting in a corner and murmuring quietly to himself. He slaps at his knees when Rick walks over to him and takes a seat on the opposite side of one of the tables.

"Hey, James," he says with a smile, and James looks up at him with his wide, earnest eyes. "How you feelin'?"

"H-hi, Rick!" James murmurs, his mouth twitching. "R-Rick. Hi, Rick. Hi!"

"Hello," Rick says again, blinking slowly. James twitches again. "James. It's happening today. Do you understand what that means?"

James twitches and slaps his knees. He frowns, then blinks, then lifts his eyes again to meet Rick's. "T-today…." He looks down and his hands start to fidget. He rocks back and forth. "Today's the day? The day?"

Rick nods. "Yes."

"Oh." James blinks, scratching at his cheek. His head tilts to one side, then the other, and he licks his lips. "Oh. Okay."

"Would you like to help me, James?" Rick asks, a gentle smile coming to his face. He thinks of James' mother and father, and the sweet innocence in James' eyes now that his brain has been cooked of anything malicious that would have brought him here in the first place. He's the perfect starting point. He won't have to suffer.

James smiles. "Hi, Rick! Y-Yes. Today's the day!"

Rick pushes himself to his feet and surveys the room again. No one's paying attention to him. "Yep," he says quietly, walking around to stand next to James. He runs his hand up James' left shoulder, then his right, his fingers gently cradling James' neck, and then his jaw. He leans down and places a kiss to James' greasy blond hair. "Today's the day."

He makes it quick. Sharp snap to the left and James is gone and slumps down onto the table. Rick moves away quickly, unnoticed by the caretakers and the cook. He walks past Jack and the big man gets up, catching him by the arm and spinning him around.

"The fuck did you just do, Mister Doomsday?" he growls.

Rick grins at him. Somewhere behind Jack's shoulder, Eddie gives a startled, unhappy shriek. Rick leans in, close enough to Jack that he can feel the man's chest expand when he breathes, and Jack's eyes go wide and he loosens his grip on Rick's arm. "See for yourself."

He pulls away and melts through the crowd of people, towards the other door that leads towards the sleeping quarters. Then, he stops, frowning. He shouldn't go that way. Daryl will be in Doctor Woodmore's building.

He turns and heads towards the other door, and stops when he hears a groaning sound. Jack is standing near James, nudging him gingerly and trying to get him to wake up. James' head twists to one side, slightly off-kilter, and then his eyes open. They're almost completely white, only a thin dot in them to mark where the iris was.

Rick smiles.

"Today's the day," he murmurs. He watches James get to his feet in a staggering, drunken way as Jack calls the caretakers over.

"What's the matter?" one of them asks, patting James down as he works his jaw and groans again.

"Mister Doomsday did somethin' to 'im," Jack hisses. "I'd bet my last -."

Rick laughs and turns away, just as James snarls and lunges and the screaming starts up.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys get an extra long chapter because I didn't want to split it up!
> 
> I might start posting three times a week during the hiatus because waiting this long between posting chapters is KILLING me.
> 
> I haven't had a chance to proof-read this chapter so apologies for any mistakes you might see.

Rick turns around once he leaves the building and watches the doors close, his head cocked to one side. He scratches the back of his neck and looks around, biting his lower lip as he thinks. There's a broom to one side of the door, but that won't do. He shrugs. He supposes it doesn't matter.

He grabs the broom and slides it through the door handles on the outside. Then, with his teeth, he rips at the bandaging on his hand harshly enough that it reopens the wound. It stings and he hisses, dragging his nails through it to make it open more and bleed faster.

 _Don't Open_ , he writes on one door. _Dead Inside_ , he writes on the second. Not that it will matter, because humanity is unfortunately curious. He smiles at his handiwork, and shrinks back when he hears groans on the other side. Unlike the doors in the rest of the place, these are made up mostly of see-through shatterproof glass, which means that the dead men walking on the inside can see him.

"This shit spreads fast," he mutters, rubbing his clean hand over his face as he watches the group at the door grow larger and larger. Granted, there are about three hundred residents and about a hundred staff, not including the janitorial and management personnel. That's a good first wave, he thinks with a nod.

"Rick!"

Rick turns around and smiles when he sees Daryl running for him. Daryl skids to a halt next to him when he sees what Rick has written, sees the shuffling shadows on the other side of the door. "Rick," he rasps, reaching out for the other man. "Rick, what the fuck did you do?"

"Told you today was the day," Rick says proudly. "The dead are walking now, Daryl." He turns back and smiles at them. He sees James, suddenly, throw himself at the door, his hands smeared with black blood, his teeth gnashing and nose shoved against the door. It's probably the most lucid he's been in months. "The dead are walking."

"Holy shit," Daryl says weakly. "We gotta – I gotta get the cops, or somethin'. Rick, come with me. Now."

Daryl reaches out and grabs Rick's bloody hand, hauling him towards the building where Doctor Woodmore's office is. Rick follows readily, looking back over his shoulder just as the doors start to crack and shatter. The broom snaps, first, the doors flying open and the dead spilling out with loud shrieks and groans. Daryl doesn't look back, but flees to the other building, and when they get inside he throws the emergency locks into place and shoves a chair up against the handles.

"That won't hold for very long," Rick says, tutting in disappointment.

"Shut up," Daryl hisses, and grabs his hand again and leads him to the Doctor's office. He shoves inside without warning.

"Daryl! Rick!" Doctor Woodmore says, straightening up with a shocked noise. "What's going on? Is that _blood_?"

"Something's happening," Daryl says quietly. "We need the phone, Doc. _Now_."

"Rick, Daryl told me about your episode this morning," Doctor Woodmore says with his quiet, concerned doctor voice on, looking on in bewilderment but not commenting as Daryl locks his door and shoves his chair under the handle as well before grabbing the phone. "I find it very concerning, especially after all the progress you made."

"It happened," Rick says, smiling widely, and he jerks his head towards the window. "See for yourself."

"Hello? Yes, this is Daryl Dixon, I'm a caretaker at King's County Penn for the Criminally Insane, and we have a situation." Daryl's voice draws Rick's attention and he looks over from his spot at the window. Outside the dead have spilled out into the open recreation area, blood smeared down their faces and arms, their jaws working as though permanently chewing, their eyes blank and hollow. He sees Jack, trailing along with one leg badly mangled. He sees James, clawing absently at anything that moves. He sees Eddie catch a squirrel and rip into it with his bare hands. He smiles.

"Fuck, I mean, I don't even know? Police. We need guns. The residents have…they're…I don't even know how to describe it."

"The dead are walking!" Rick calls, grinning. "Once you get bit, you turn!"

"Shut _up_ , Rick," Daryl hisses. "What? Oh, that's a resident here. He's…well, shit, he might be right, though. They're all turned. I don't think any of them are even alive anymore. Or what they're on. We need firepower and we need guys to take them down. Okay. Alright. _Thank you_." He hangs up with a huff. "They'll be here in fifteen. We just have to wait it out."

Rick shakes his head. "Everyone who dies, turns," he murmurs. "You get bitten, you turn. You die, you turn. Headshot's only thing that'll save you."

Daryl narrows his eyes. "And how exactly do you know all this, huh?"

"Because I've _seen_ it, Daryl," Rick says, moving away from the window. He takes both of Daryl's hands in his, fingers brushing just shy of where his pulse sits. "I've seen it, for so long, and now it's finally happening. It's…it's _finally happening_."

"This is ridiculous," Doctor Woodmore says, shaking his head and walking away from the window. "This is insane. There's nothing wrong with those people. And there must be staff still left. We can get a handle on this."

"Doc, I really wouldn't -."

"Look, son, when you've been in the game as long as I have, you don't get scared by stuff like this. Now, you stay here and make sure Rick doesn't hurt himself. I shan't be long." Daryl swallows when the man reaches for the chair, and moves forward to stop him, but Rick catches him by the arm and shakes his head. The man moves the chair and undoes the lock and leaves the room. Rick only lets him go to redo the lock and move the chair back into place.

Daryl fixes him with a look, and goes back to the window. The blinds are drawn because the sun slants in with an unbearable heat in the afternoons, and Daryl twitches them just enough that they can both stand by the window and peer out without risk of being seen unless specifically looked for.

"He's gonna die out there," Daryl whispers.

Rick hums, nodding. "Yes, he is," he says, and rests his clean hand on Daryl's shoulder. "But that's okay. He wasn't meant to survive."

"And you are?" Daryl replies, voice harsh. " _I_ am? What about my brother? Your wife? Your _kid_?"

Rick sighs. "Daryl," he says, turning the man around so that they're facing each other. They are standing very close together, enough that Rick can see the different lines of color in Daryl's irises, even though his unruly hair hides parts of his face. "No one will die who did not resign themselves to it. This I can promise. Death will not seek anyone out over anyone else. That isn't how this works."

"And how does it work?" Daryl asks.

"The dead will walk." Rick says, placing his bloody hand on Daryl's other arm. "Until the four horsemen are stopped. I've seen this. I _know_ this. Death chose me and made sure I was ready for when the time came. And now the time is here."

Daryl shakes his head, drawing back. "Rick, this is _insane_ ," he says, throwing his arms out wide to either side of him. "You're talkin'…you're talking about the fucking _apocalypse_ and killing _horsemen_ and…and what the fuck am I supposed to do with this, huh? Just blindly believe?"

"You said you wouldn't until you saw it," Rick replies. "I've found that people who aren't religious believe in this kind of thing a lot more quickly." He tilts his head, gesturing towards the window. "See. Look your fill. You still don't believe me?"

"I _can't_ believe it," Daryl insists, pressing his fingers to his chest.

"Things don't have to be believed in to be real," Rick replies calmly, scratching the back of his neck in a gesture that's almost sheepish. He squints and leans out so that the light coming in from the blinds slants across his face. "The police are here."

"Good," Daryl huffs with a nod. "We should get out of here, then."

Rick reaches out a hand, stopping him. "No," he says quietly. "We shouldn't."

"What?"

Rick sighs and pulls open the blinds a little more.

There are three cop cars pulling up. Daryl curses under his breath. There's not nearly enough of them, with one man to a car, _maybe_ two. They should know better – this is a facility for the criminally insane, after all. It's not like even a little incident is going to stay little for long. Daryl curls his fingers along the edge of the windowsill and pulls his shoulders up. He watches one of the cops – the one in the front car – step out of his car and talk into his radio. The shuffling dead men and women in the lot are turning towards them, their groans getting more frantic and higher-pitched, their arms reaching and their jaws moving as though being pulled by strings.

One of the cops pulls out his gun and shouts for them to stop. They don't. They won't. Daryl is sure of that by now. The cop fires. It does nothing – a bullet straight in the chest and the thing doesn't fall. He fires again. Still, they keep coming. One of them shoots one in the head and it falls like a sack of bricks, still and silent. It was Jack.

"They will run out of bullets soon," Rick murmurs, placing his hand between Daryl's shoulders. Daryl tenses but doesn't move otherwise.

"We can't stay here," he says. Rick nods.

"The herd will move on soon," he says. "They will keep moving, and people will keep turning, until the whole county is overrun. Then the state. Then America, and probably everywhere else." He shrugs, turning away, his hand falling from Daryl's back.

Daryl straightens up, turning to look at Rick. "And you believe you can stop it?"

Rick smiles. "I know I can."

" _How_?"

"By killing the horsemen," Rick says. "Pestilence. War. Famine. Death. If we find them all, and kill them all, it'll stop. I've _seen_ it."

Daryl shakes his head again and chews on the inside of his lower lip. "You're insane," he grunts, and shakes his head again. "This isn't fucking happening."

The gunshots abruptly stop, and Daryl looks back out between the blinds. The cops have fallen. He grimaces as he sees the lead one go down, screaming for backup as one of the dead men bites into his shoulder and rips the flesh clean off before swallowing it down. Soon there's a whole host of monsters on him, eating him alive before his cries go silent, only his gun-wielding hand visible and still clenched tightly around the weapon.

"We die, we turn," Daryl whispers. "We get bitten, we turn."

Rick hums, nodding. "It's…like a virus, I think," he says, looking at his hands and turning them over to admire the run of his veins across the back of them, then back over to see the lines in his palms. One of his hands is red, the little grooves in his palm lined darkly. "We all got infected. Pestilence, I think. He's the first, after all. The first to come."

Daryl huffs, straightening. "We…we can't stay here."

Rick nods. "But we can't exactly leave, either."

"We'll stay the night, then," Daryl says. "Until they all leave. Then…then we gotta get weapons. Supplies. We gotta warn people. We gotta get away from the city." Rick closes his eyes as Daryl goes over to the phone and picks it up. He frowns, pushing on the little lever within the cradle for the phone, and curses when all he gets is a dial tone. "What the fuck? What happened?"

Rick opens his eyes and turns to look back outside. One of the dead men walk past the window abruptly, blocking his view, growling and grunting and he moves quickly away. He's not sure it saw him, but he doesn't want to take any chances either.

"They must have walked into a transformer or something," Rick says with a one-shouldered shrug. "We should stay away from the windows."

Daryl nods. They are, unfortunately, on the bottom floor. There's a small path and a hedge separating them and a whole host of the walking dead. It's not much, and apparently glass isn't enough to keep them out either, but if they keep quiet they should be safe. The things seem drawn by scent and sound, so it they don't draw any attention to themselves they'll be alright.

Rick moves to the blood-colored couch and sits himself down on it with a sigh, rubbing his hands through his hair, before he hooks them behind his neck and looks up at Daryl with wide, earnest blue eyes. "You have to understand that I did try to warn you," he says, as though he can apologize for seeing the fucking _apocalypse_ coming. "But I'll keep you safe, Daryl. You don't have to be afraid as long as you don't start to wish for death."

Daryl makes an ugly, angry sound. "I'll remember that," he says, looking around for somewhere else to sit. The only options, since the chair is stuck, is with Rick on the couch or on the Doctor's desk. He grunts again, looking up at the little cabinet behind his desk, and walks over and reaches for it. The little unlabeled bottle is inside, half-full and sticky at the top, and he hefts it down with a grimace.

Rick's eyes narrow and he licks his lips as Daryl screws the cap off and tips it back. It burns – it's bad shit, probably no more than ten bucks at a liquor store, the cheap prick – but it's alcohol and it'll do the trick of calming Daryl's nerves from the screaming mass of _what the actual fuck_ that they've become.

He hands the bottle to Rick, who takes it without a word and tips it back as well, taking three long gulps until his eyes start to water. He lets it go and hands it back, gasping for breath as the liquor runs down his throat and settles somewhere warm in front of his heart.

Daryl takes another long swill and lets out a soft laugh, shaking his head. "I can't fucking believe it," he says. Rick opens his mouth but Daryl raises his hand and takes another drink. "I mean, I do believe it. But I can't fucking believe it."

"I understand it's a lot to take in," Rick says. "I had months to get used to the idea."

"And this…you saw this? All of it?" Daryl asks, using the bottle of alcohol to gesture between them, and then towards the outside.

Rick nods, looking down, and he heaves a sigh. "Death came to me, right before I got here," he says with another nod. "I…I mean, I don't wanna bore you with my life story." He rolls his eyes, reaching out and gesturing for Daryl to hand them the bottle.

"Not like we don't have time," Daryl replies, taking one more long drink before passing it off. "Seems right since you're the one who saw it comin'."

Rick considers that, his lips resting against the lip of the bottle as he watches Daryl's eyes, before he tips the drink back with a hum and lets it slide down his throat again. "Back in spring, I was shot in the line of duty," he says, his eyes moving back to Daryl's, then away. Daryl is watching him intently, attentive to Rick's story. He nods when Rick tells him this; it's common knowledge, since Rick used to need painkillers post-surgery during his first days here. "Put me in a coma for a couple months. When I was out, I had visions."

He snorts, looking down, and hands the bottle back to Daryl. "I knew they were…when I woke up, everything was normal. But in my coma it was like all this had already happened. Different, of course, but I already felt like I was in it. So when I woke up, and saw the world was still the same, I knew it was coming."

Daryl makes a soft noise, taking the bottle back. "So you decided to kill three guys?" he asks. His voice is thinly weighted with judgement, but not scorn. Daryl has learned long ago that there is a myriad of reasons why people do what they do. He's never asked Rick about the violent attacks that put him in here, but if Rick's open to sharing then he won't reject the information.

Rick nods. "I thought…I thought I'd found them. Pestilence and War and Famine. I thought I'd found them, so I thought if I'd killed them then it wouldn't happen. But Death came to me that night. I'd seen him when I was in my coma, just over my shoulder like a shadow. But he never spoke." He rubs his hands over his face, sighing heavily. "He never spoke. He just watched. Until that night, when I killed those men. He came to me, then."

"Death came to you," Daryl repeats. He shakes his head and sighs, tipping the bottle back again. There's one more swig's worth left in it and he offers it to Rick, who takes it and finishes the bottle off with one last gasp before setting it on the floor by one of the legs of the blood-red couch. "And he told you…what?"

"He told me it was coming," Rick replies. He gestures to the drawn blinds, and for a moment both of the men are silent, listening to the growls and groans coming from the outside. "And I believed him. When they came for me, I didn't fight. I _didn't_." He sighs again. "But Lori was scared. She said I'd been acting weird since I woke up. _Chemical imbalances_ , or something like that. They said I was violent. They said I was… _dangerous_."

He makes an ugly face, shoving himself to his feet, and walks over to the window. "I'd never hurt my kid. I'd never hurt _Lori_."

"I believe you," Daryl says, very quietly. When Rick turns back to look at him, Daryl isn't looking in his direction. His eyes are on the floor, on the empty bottle by the couch. His fingers are dug tightly into his biceps, arms folded across his chest, one ankle crossed over the other as he rests against the desk. He clears his throat and looks up. "I don’t think you'd hurt 'em. Or anyone. Not unless they made you."

Rick shakes his head. "You give me too much credit," he says, looking away again and running his fingers across the blinds. They've been freshly dusted, but Rick can't for the life of him remember seeing any janitorial staff in this building. It's essentially empty except for Doctor Woodmore's office. "Maybe I am dangerous. I did kill three men in cold blood."

"Yeah, well, we've all done shit," Daryl replies. His fingers twitch and he sighs, straightening up and running a hand through his hair. "Damn, I'd kill for a cigarette right now."

Rick's mouth twitches. "Those things'll kill ya."

Daryl's eyes snap to him, narrowed, but his lips curl up as well as though he's fighting a smile. "Shut up," he says. Rick can tell the moment the alcohol hits him. Daryl doesn't strike him as a lightweight, but his shoulders are looser now and when he talks it's a little more low, the 'S' a little more slurred. He sighs. "Well, I'm beat, man. If we're stayin' the night we should get some shut-eye."

Rick nods. "I'll take first watch," he says, head cocked to one side as he looks back out of the window. "And we should turn off the lights. They'll be attracted to it."

"Right." Daryl walks over and flicks off the light, before he turns around and squints into the darkness. There is just a little bit of natural light still coming in through the blinds, but it will fade quickly, he's sure. Rick has made no move to come away from the window and so Daryl takes the couch, stretching out on it until his back gives a protesting pop and he groans. "Y'know, when I took this job, they made me sign a waiver saying I wouldn't come after them if somethin' happened to me. 'Cause of the residents, you know."

Rick gives a noncommittal hum. "Technically, you're still bound to that," he says lightly.

Daryl snorts again. "Shut up, Rick." He's already sounding very tired. Rick hums again and turns back to look out of the window. The herd has already started to clear. There were never many residents and staff in this facility, given that there is a far larger one on the border of Atlanta, and once all the warm bodies turn they'll spread out to seek more. There are still some gathered around the three cops, or at least what's left of them.

Daryl's breathing starts to even out soon enough and Rick smiles, glad that Daryl will be able to get some rest before the real trials set in. The mission doesn't promise to be easy – in fact, missions given by deities and forces beyond their control rarely make anything easy for mortals – but Rick believes in the mission and he trusts Death's task that was given to him.

He clenches his hand, hissing when his cut palm shoots pain up his arm. He will have to make sure that heals correctly. There should be the medicine stash near Doctor Woodmore's office once everything clears. They'll grab medicine, and food, and as many weapons as they can find and can carry. Then they'll have to go to the station and stock up on everything else. Guns will be the most effective, but they're loud. They'll benefit more with things that are sharp, throwable, and easy to get more of.

Rick's mouth twists and he heaves in a breath before letting it out. Hopefully Death will come to him soon and give him more guidance. If nothing else, a direction.

Daryl's breathing stutters. He wakes briefly as one of the walkers treks by them with a startlingly loud groan. Rick sees him sit up and look over his shoulder, eyes narrowed in the low light.

"Still here," Rick murmurs, reaching out to rest a hand on the back of the couch next to Daryl's head.

Daryl licks his lips. "It's still real," he says quietly, and Rick nods.

"I'm sorry you had to witness the end of the world."

Daryl shrugs one shoulder. "Ain't much different," he says.

Rick smiles. "I'll take care of you, Daryl. I promise."

"We should go to my house, when we're clear'a here. Get my bow. And my truck."

Rick nods. "That's a good idea."

"You got a plan for where we go after?"

"…No," Rick admits, licking his lips and turning his gaze back out towards the open recreation area. The cops are little more than black splashes on the ground now. Totally consumed. The walking dead must be starving. "But I'll think of something."

 

 

The next morning Rick wakes Daryl, just as dawn is starting to color the sky a pale blue and he's able to see and determine without a shadow of a doubt that most of the walkers have moved on. Daryl squints at him, grunting as he rights himself and wipes the heel of his hand across his mouth.

"Did you sleep?" he asks, taking in Rick's tired eyes. Rick shakes his head and Daryl growls at him. "Damn it, thought we were gonna take turns keepin' watch."

"Wasn't tired," Rick replies, unapologetic. Truthfully he's not sure he'll sleep again. He feels _alive_ , electrified, high on the knowledge that he was right and that his mission is finally underway. He grabs Daryl's forearm and hauls him upright. "Come on. We should go wherever the medicine is stored, and then grab some weapons before we head to yours."

Daryl nods, his lips pressed into a thin line.

Rick takes a moment to study Daryl as he watches the man go to the chair barring the door and move it to one side. Daryl is strong. The thin material of his scrub top and bottoms do little to hide that. His shoulders are broad under his clothes, his arms and thighs thick. He's a hunter, and a fighter. A perfect companion at the end of the world. Rick smiles when Daryl looks at him, able to sense Rick's eyes on the back of his neck like a physical weight.

Rick moves past him to gently turn the handle of the door, careful to be as quiet as he can, and opens the door just wide enough that he can look down the hallway in one direction, then wider to peer down the other.

"All clear," he murmurs, then opens the door fully to let it rest against the back wall with a soft tap. He walks out into the hallway and takes a deep breath. His building had been left untouched, from what he can see. There are no smears of black along the walls or the floor, and the doors don't look like they've been opened all night. The chair is askew from where Daryl braced it before and not underneath the handle anymore, but the door itself is shut. He gestures for Daryl to join him. "Where are the meds kept?"

"Uh, this way," Daryl says, nodding back towards the heart of the building. There are low exit lights guiding the way and as they start to walk down, motion-sensitive fluorescent lights turn on with dull hums. Daryl goes tense as they light up, looking back over his shoulder towards the door. "Did you see any more of 'em out there?"

Rick shakes his head. "They're not…smart, really. Not anymore. They'll beat a door down but I don't think they can figure out handles or anything. We'll hear 'em coming."

"Okay." Daryl blows out a breath, his shoulders rolling. "Let's go, then."

Rick instinctively reaches out to hook his fingers in Daryl's shirt as the other man starts down the hallway. Daryl doesn't give any indication of noticing. It's a silly habit, Rick thinks, but he can't bring himself to let go. Maybe Daryl needs something familiar right now – something commonplace and normal in the new world order.

"Here," Daryl murmurs, stopping at a door almost to the end of the hallway. It's a closed-off place. There is no other way out except the doorway at the other end that leads to the outside. Rick feels his skin prickle with anxiety.

Rick reaches for the door and gives a soft curse when the handle doesn't turn. "Shit. Any idea where the keys are?"

Daryl bites the inside of his lower lip and looks over Rick's shoulder, then back at the door. "I can pick it," he says slowly. "Probably. Been a while. Need to find a hairpin or somethin'."

Rick raises his eyebrows and cocks his head to one side. "There a lot of those here?"

"Or _somethin_ '," Daryl bites back with a roll of his eyes. "C'mon, let's see if Woodmore has anything useful in his office."

They head back down the hallway and freeze at the sound of a loud groan, close by. Rick's eyes flash to the doorway at the end of the hall but he can't tell if it's coming from there. The groan sounds again, this time getting louder and higher until it's almost a shriek, and the door pushes in with a soft thud. It doesn't open – it's meant to open outwards. But there's one out there.

"Shit," Daryl hisses, then reaches out to grab Rick's wrist. "Come on."

They hurry into Doctor Woodmore's office and secure the chair in place once again before they start to rummage around. Doctor Woodmore's office is sparse in terms of anything useful. There are pens and notepads, bookmarks, a small spiral-bound address book in the bottom drawer.

Rick lets out a low whistle when he yanks on the top drawer hard enough to break it. It had been locked, but comes apart easily as he pulls it open. Daryl growls at him, a soft "Quiet!", but goes still when Rick lifts the gun. It's a small pistol, a six-shooter and would barely take down a squirrel at a long range, but it's a weapon.

There is a small box of bullets, full, shining in the low light.

Rick searches for some place on his person to hold it, before giving up with a low huff. "Here," he says, holding the gun out to Daryl with the muzzle pointed back at him. "You should carry it."

"Don't really like guns," Daryl mutters, but takes it anyway and tucks it into the waistband of his scrub pants. He pockets the bullets, too. "Find anything else useful?"

"All I got's a letter opener," Rick replies sheepishly, scratching the back of his head and holding on the thin, long tool. "Ain't even made of metal. Will it work?"

Daryl shrugs. "Better than nothin'," he says, and goes back to looking. Rick, unable to think of anywhere else to put the thing, slides it over his ear like a pencil and tucks it into his hair. He keeps looking and manages to find a couple of paperclips but nothing else. "I think this is all we'll get," he says, holding out the paperclips for Daryl to see.

Daryl nods. "That'll probably work," he says and takes them, sliding them into his other pocket. "Alright, let's go."

They make it back to the door before another groan sounds off, this time significantly louder. It sounds like it's coming from right outside the door. Rick can hear shuffling. "Fuck," he whispers, scratching at the back of his neck. He grabs the letter opener and holds it in his hand, ready to stab. "Alright. Get ready."

"Woah!" Daryl reaches out and wraps his hand around Rick's weapon-wielding wrist, his eyes wide. "Man, we have a _gun_. Why are you gonna use that?"

"The sound might draw more," Rick says. "And that thing's not loaded. Don't even think Doc had the right bullets for it. We can't risk drawing more with something that loud in such a tight space, Daryl. And it's only one."

Daryl's mouth twists but he lets go. He must sense the readiness in Rick, the adrenaline and the fire that feels like it's burning in his hands. He moves the chair away and Rick takes a deep breath, his free hand on the door handle.

He taps against the door, knuckles only – six soft, light raps, and curses when something heavy thuds against the door. It's definitely one of them, and Rick can hear nails screeching down the door on the other side.

"One," he counts, his hand tightening on the letter opener and the door handle. He looks back at Daryl and nods. "Two." Daryl nods back, and Rick yanks the door open.

The thing falls through the small gap, gnashing its teeth and groaning with whited-out eyes. Rick curses and twists the letter opener in his hand and brings his arm down in one quick stabbing motion.

When Rick had killed the three men, committing the crime that had put him in this place, he remembers how he'd done it. Killing horsemen required _specific_ things. Ritualistic, as all powerful spells must be. He remembers how easily skin had parted under his knife, how limp and heavy the dead bodies had become.

This body is heavy and feels like it crushes him when the thing chokes and growls, thrashing against him. He grits his teeth and tries to shove the knife deeper but he has no leverage. Then, Daryl is behind the thing, hauling it back by its clothes and throwing it onto the floor while Rick slams the door shut. The letter opener is still stuck in its head and it reaches for Daryl, growling and grunting. Daryl lifts his foot up and slams it down on the back of the letter opener, driving it through its skull in a final blow and the body finally goes still.

They're both breathing hard as the body goes cold and quiet, and Daryl lets out a soft curse, running his hands through his hair.

"Fuck," he whispers, falling down onto the blood-red couch. " _Fuck_. Ain't ever killed a guy before."

"It wasn't alive," Rick replies, kneeling down and yanking the letter opener out of its skull. Black goo oozes out behind it and the body breathes out whatever air is left in it. There's blood around the throat, red and fresh, and staining the clothes still clinging in tatters to it. Curious, Rick nudges the head to one side with his shoe. "It's Doctor Woodmore."

"'Course it is," Daryl replies. His voice is shaky. "Rick…I don't know if I can do this."

"You have to," Rick says, hauling Daryl up again, this time with one hand in his shirt so that Daryl has no choice but to look at him, as close as they are. Rick meets his gaze and refuses to let it fall away. "If you want to live, you have to do what needs to be done, Daryl. I'll look after you, but you have to be able to hold your own, too."

"Fuck you," Daryl breathes, but doesn't push Rick away. His eyes are dark, like storm clouds rushing in from the sea. Right before they break. "I haven't had a long time to get used to this, alright? But I'm not gonna fuckin' keel over and let it happen either."

Rick smiles, letting go of Daryl's shirt. "Good," he says quietly, his voice warm with affection as he gently runs his hand up to Daryl's shoulder and gives it a soft squeeze. "Because I don't want to lose you, Daryl. You're very important to me."

Daryl's cheeks go pink and he does finally look away, stepping out of Rick's hold. "Let's go break into the med room," he mutters, running his nails through his hair again. "And then we're getting the Hell out of here."

Rick nods and follows Daryl back out of the room and to the medicine room they were at before. They don't hear any more groaning or shuffling, and Rick keeps watch when Daryl kneels down and uncurls the paperclips Rick had found and sets to work.

"So," Rick says conversationally as Daryl does his best to pick the lock. "You can lock pick, you got one hell of a mean leg on you. Had a rough life, Daryl?"

"You could say that," Daryl replies gruffly, wiping his wrist across his mouth before he pulls out one of the paperclips, twists it and tries again. "Adapt or die. That's the gist, isn't it? Well, I'm good at adaptin'."

"That's great news," Rick says with another smile, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes on the far door. "I knew you'd be a great friend to have at the end of the world."

Daryl pauses, looking up at Rick. "We're friends?" he asks, but he doesn't sound offended that Rick would assume such an intimate relationship between them. Unsure, rather. Hesitant.

Rick nods. "Absolutely," he says. "I consider you one of my closest friends. Well, maybe even my closest. Shane might be dead. Lori and Carl, too."

"Ain't had a great many friends," Daryl says with a snort, turning back to squinting at the lock. "Not really sure that's what I'd call this, though." Before Rick can answer, Daryl huffs a soft breath, blowing his hair out of his face, and the paperclips twist and they both hear the soft 'click' of the lock opening. Daryl lets out another loud breath, sitting back on his heels and testing the door handle, pleased when it starts to turn. "Shit, there we go!"

"Good job, Daryl," Rick praises quietly, and lets Daryl enter the room first. Inside the room is small, packed with shelves of medication. "We'll need antibiotics, most of all, and anything to stitch up wounds."

"Right. Over here, I think," he says, leading Rick to one of the back corners. There are first aid kits with gauze and smaller bandages inside and Rick takes them. He spies a backpack on one of the shelves and takes it down and starts to fill it with anything that looks useful. Soon enough the pack is full of anything they can take that doesn't require refrigeration.

Daryl, suddenly, lets out a soft laugh. "Well, I'll be damned," he says, holding up a pair of medical scissors for Rick to see. "Guess I was wrong."

Rick grins and holds the bag open for Daryl to put them inside. He zips it closed and hefts it onto his back with a small huff, grimacing at the weight. Hopefully he'll build up his endurance and strength in the days and weeks to come. He lost a lot of weight during the coma and had never been able to build it back up. People don't take kindly to someone convicted in a criminally insane institution working out.

They head back out into the hallway, doing another quick check to make sure it's unoccupied. Daryl takes his place at Rick's right, slightly behind him as they head out to the doors. He walks awkwardly, uncomfortable with the weight of the gun at the small of his back. He'll get used to it, Rick is sure.

"Ready?" Rick asks, his hand on the door. Daryl nods and Rick leans his weight against the door, opening it with a quiet grunt.

Even though he'd seen it coming, Rick will admit he's unprepared for the _sensation_ of walking into the end of the world. There is no wind, uncharacteristic of Georgia in autumn, and the sun beats down on their faces and shoulders as they walk out into the open.

Daryl lets out an ugly, horrified sound, and presses his hand over his nose. "Shit, the _smell_ ," he groans, and Rick can't help but nod. Without the wind the stench of death and disease wraps around them like a heavy cloak, and when Rick breathes in he can take in the undefinable but unmistakable scent of decay, of blood, and of all the other things that bodies expel when they give up the ghost.

Rick tries not to look at the sheen of black slick marking the ground, but his eyes are inadvertently drawn to the three cop cars, their lights still flashing in red and blue. Something inside of him twists, familiar and almost wistful. In another world, he could have been one of those men, who are no more than stains on the ground now, another meal for the ever-hungry dead.

"Come on," Daryl grunts, tugging on Rick's arm. "Let's see what we can scavenge for food."

Rick nods and lets Daryl lead the way to the other building. They don't see any more walkers around but that's not really a sign of anything. The glass of the door lies in shattered pieces on the ground. There's fresh blood and Rick even sees a hand on the ground, severed in a jagged line. Rick steps inside of the doorway carefully, wincing when the glass crackles beneath his feet. There aren't any walkers on the inside that he can see. Daryl urges him onward to the kitchens and snags a laundry bag on the way, dumping it out so that they'll be able to fill it with food.

Rick has never been in the kitchens, and to his knowledge the residents were never allowed inside of the place either. There are too many sharp objects, he supposes. He grabs the few knives that he can see and slides them into one of the side pockets of the rucksack along with the letter opener and then makes his way over the shelves of Jell-o packs, fruit cups and other less-perishables.

Rick snorts, grabbing a fruit cup and tossing it into the laundry bag that Daryl leaves open by his feet while he grabs more food to pile in. "Whose ass should I have been kissin' to get this every day?" he asks. He doesn't remember ever getting pudding and fruit cups.

Daryl shakes his head, one corner of his mouth twitching up in a brief moment of joy. "No one's," he says, tossing another cup into the laundry bag. "These weren't for you guys. You get grits and other soft shit. Don't wanna upset your _delicate humors_."

"Hey, and I thought I was the killer," Rick says, putting a hand on his heart and pouting when Daryl rolls his eyes and moves away from one shelf and to another. "Well, I guess we're just gonna have to make up for lost time." Even as he says it he opens one of the pudding cups, sticking his finger in and licking off a generous glob of butterscotch pudding.

Daryl raises an eyebrow, his cheeks pink as he watches Rick eat. He clears his throat and tears into one himself. Rick hadn't been aware of how hungry he is until he'd started to eat. Now it claws at his stomach like fingernails and he finishes the pudding cup quickly, licking his finger clean and then wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his jumpsuit.

"There's not much else, really," Daryl says, kicking at a still-full pan of oatmeal that had been refrigerated in preparation for the morning. "And if this thing is gonna get as big as you say, we ain't gonna have access to stoves and ovens for long."

Rick shrugs one shoulder. "I get the feeling we're both used to living rough."

Daryl fixes him with another look, before he grunts in acknowledgement and walks back over to the laundry bag. He tugs at the cord until it tightens and hauls it up onto his shoulder, his arms flexing and his jaw clenched from the strain of carrying the weight. "Alright, let's just go now. This place is giving me major creeps. It's never this quiet."

Rick nods, feeling strangely unsettled himself. He takes one of the knives from the backpack and holds it ready, because laden as he is Daryl won't be able to move or defend himself very quickly, and his gun is still very much empty and practically useless.

They hurry back out of the building and towards the cop cars. Rick heads for the one in the back, the one that will be easiest to pull away in, and peers inside. It's empty, and he can see the keys still in the ignition, and smiles. "This one," he says, pulling back and opening the back door before shoving his pack with medicine and weapons inside. Daryl follows suit on the other side and then they slide into the driver and passenger seat respectively.

Daryl lets out a breath, whistling lowly as he looks at the computer and radio on the dash, and the small console sitting between the driver and passenger seat. Rick turns the key and the car comes to life with a quiet purring sound, and he turns the lights off and starts to back away from the other cars so that he can turn and start down the little driveway that separates the facility from the highway.

"Never been in the front of one of these before," Daryl murmurs, before he reaches forward and grabs the radio from the dash. Every station is filled with static. He frowns and sets it back down. "That ain't a good sign."

Rick hums, his eyes closing for a moment. "They'll start evacuating soon, once they get a handle on what's going on," he says. "The hospitals will fall first." The way he speaks is even and smooth, unfeeling, as he pulls out onto the highway and towards their town. "The dead and the dying within them will turn and then the nurses, and the other patients, and everyone else."

His eyes flash into the rear-view mirror as he spies one of the walkers limping out onto the road behind them, growling and reaching for them even as they disappear around a corner.

"How…did it start?" Daryl asks. "I mean, here. Who was the first?"

Rick smiles. "James," he says.

"James?" Daryl looks at him, his eyes wide in shock. "But James was…James was healthy enough. Cooked in the head, sure, but physically he was fine. How'd he die?"

"I killed him," Rick says simply.

Daryl straightens, an expression like horror crossing his face. Rick sees him reaching for the door handle and so he speeds up, his jaw set. Daryl won't leave him. He _can't_. "You… _killed_ him?" Daryl breathes, and Rick can hear the unsteadiness in it, whatever calm he'd managed to find cracking under that truth. "So _you_ started it. You did this!"

"No." Rick slows the car to a stop and turns to face Daryl fully, his jaw set and his voice tight and controlled. Anger sweeps through him, as suddenly as a wildfire, in the face of Daryl's judgement and his disbelief. How Daryl could have so little faith in him, Rick doesn't know, and he's offended in his bones at the thought that _he_ could have started such a catastrophic event. "No, I didn't."

"You killed James, and then he turned. It wouldn't'a happened if you hadn't killed him!"

"That's not true," Rick bites back. "If we had news, you'd see. California. Wisconsin. Florida. James wasn't patient zero, Daryl. I didn't kill him to _start_ anything. I killed him because without killing him we'd have been sitting ducks until the plague came to us. You could have _died_."

"We could still die! All of us!" Daryl hisses, leaning forward and jabbing an accusing finger at Rick's chest. "But you killed him, Rick. _Fuck_." He turns away, running his hands through his hair, and breathes out. "You killed him and you ain't even sorry, are ya?"

"Why would I be?" Rick asks, straightening in his seat and pushing down on the gas pedal again to peel them away from the side of the road and continue on their journey. "James isn't suffering anymore. At least, his soul isn't. It's a mercy killing. He said he wanted to help me."

Daryl lets out a soft, disgusted sound and Rick's mouth twists.

"He doesn't have to be afraid," he adds quietly. "He doesn't have to…see it happen. He's gone, Daryl. He's beyond our help now."

" _Shit_." Daryl's voice is thick with something like remorse. Like he could have saved James, saved them all, had he been there to stop Rick in his plan. But something like this can't be stopped. Pestilence has already touched them all, his other name is Conquest and he has set out his map and his plan. War will follow, sweeping through the nation and turning brothers against each other and slaying children and husbands and wives left and right. The world will divide in a way that politics and culture and skin color never could. Then, Famine will come, and unite them all again into stronger, better people. Communities will form, and they will continue to fight, but they will rise up above like a great phoenix from the ashes of disaster.

And then, Death. Touching everyone, forever present. Rick smiles.

"Turn left," Daryl finally says after what feels like years and miles of silence. Rick raises an eyebrow and cocks his head to one side. "My house is that way. We'll get clothes, more weapons will be there, more food. Some money if shit like that even matters anymore." He sucks in a breath and leans back, his eyes closed and his head tilted back to expose his throat and so that he can rest his head against the headrest. "Swap out this car for something less flashy. Maybe Merle will be there, too. He can help us."

Rick nods and switches the turn signal on, immediately feeling foolish for doing so because there are no other cars on the road. Probably won't be for a while, until the real panic sets in. Then the roads will be flooded, everyone rushing from the cities, blocking each other in like fish in a barrel and ready for slaughter.

"You got anythin' brewin' in that head of yours about where to go after?"

"Workin' on it," Rick says, and Daryl huffs out a tired, defeated laugh. "I'll know when I know. You just gotta have a little faith, Daryl."

Daryl shakes his head. "Ain't ever been religious, Rick. Not gonna start now."

"Don't put your faith in God," Rick replies, unable to hide the distaste in his voice. Daryl, hearing it, opens his eyes and looks over at Rick. Rick shakes his head and growls. "Don't believe in God, or religion. They're not here yet. Won't be for a while."

"Then what?" Daryl whispers. "Who?"

Rick tears his eyes away from the road to meet Daryl's. They're lighter now, less stormy and more like water frozen under a thick patch of ice. "Me," he says quietly, utterly serious, and Daryl's expression doesn't change. He looks lost, wondering, like a child in the middle of a foreign crowd searching desperately for his parents. "I won't let anything happen to you. I promise. Just trust me. Just believe in me. Can you do that?"

Daryl licks his lips, lets them part, and then swallows and turns his face away from Rick's eyes. "I don't know," he says nervously, wincing when they drive through a bump in the road, the car giving a protesting creak. "But I'll try."

Rick smiles, happy enough with that answer. He turns his attention back to the road. Then, a thought occurs to him. "The station!" he says happily, drumming his hands against the steering wheel. "After your house. We'll go to the station. There will be guns, armor, and maybe more people there able to help us. That's where we'll go."

Daryl manages a small, unhappy smile. "Well, it's a start."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's technically Friday where I am so happy Friday! Have a chapter.
> 
> This chapter contains a dog getting eaten by a walker, for those of you sensitive to that kind of thing.
> 
> You guys are giving me such amazing feedback and responses, I love every single comment I receive, so I just wanted to take a moment to thank you for that. This story is a little nerve-wracking for me, I'm not sure why, but I'm just really glad you guys are liking it so much. I hope you continue to enjoy it with me as I share it <3

Rick isn't sure what he'd imagined Daryl's house to look like, but this isn't it. It's not a house, not like he'd imagined or could picture his own looking like. It's a trailer, parked a little way away from the others in the lot. Rick sees no signs of life aside from a dog chained up in a yard in front of one, barking madly at them as they drive by.

Daryl's trailer is surrounded in overgrown grass, like a moat. There's a flag on the yard but Rick can't for the life of him identify what it's meant to be a flag of. It has vague hints of red, but the rest is lost in dirt and oil and mud. Next to it stands a motorcycle, positively gleaming in comparison, shiny and well-loved. Next to the bike is a worn-looking pickup truck, rusty around the wheels but otherwise looking in decent condition. The screen door is ripped and the inner door is open and Daryl tenses as they approach.

"Maybe you should wait in the car," Daryl murmurs, reaching out to grab Rick's shoulder as Rick makes to get out of the vehicle. Rick frowns, looking back at him. "Drivin' up in a cop car isn't the best start, but you're in a jumpsuit glowin' like the sun and this isn't the best neighborhood."

"You're worried about me?" Rick teases, unable to stop himself smiling.

"And myself," Daryl replies, unreactive to Rick's playful tone. His eyes are on the door. "Door's open. Merle might not be here. But his car is. So…I'm nervous."

"Here," Rick says, handing Daryl the knife he'd claimed. It's a knife meant for slicing potatoes, if he had to guess, and is long and sharp-looking. Daryl takes it without his eyes leaving the door. "I'll wait here, I suppose."

Daryl nods. "I'll whistle if I need you."

He gets out of the car and shuts the door as quietly as he can and Rick settles back to wait. He's used to stakeouts and having to wait for criminals to come to him, but this is different. Now the danger is very real and not just to him – Daryl is strong, and capable. He's sure of that. But as soon as he disappears from sight Rick feels that familiar anxiety washing over him. If he can't see Daryl, he can't see any danger that Daryl might be in. If he can't see the danger he can't protect him, and he'd _promised_ that he would. Rick sighs, scratching the back of his neck. Without the air conditioning and with the windows rolled up the car gets hot quickly and he's already starting to sweat. He ignores it, though – the aches and pains of the body are something he's going to have to get used to, after all.

While he waits, he rummages around in the rucksack again until he finds antiseptic wipes and a small patch of gauze. He rips off one sleeve of his jumpsuit, unwilling to waste the bandaging on such a small wound, and holds it in his teeth as he wipes his injured hand down to clean it. Then he presses the gauze to his palm and wraps the sleeve around his hand tightly – not enough to restrict his fingers but enough that he's sure it won't unravel and fall away.

His eyes are drawn by movement to his right and he tenses when he sees another door open. He braces himself for the worst and curses under his breath when the door opens further, letting out the fumbling, shuffling form of a female walker. The dog in the yard starts to go crazy and she hisses, lumbering over to it and falling onto it with another growl. The dog snarls, snapping at her, but she rips into it with another growl and Rick winces as the dog goes quiet.

He gets out of the car quickly, another knife in his hand, and stalks over to the woman. She's distracted by her meal and so it's easy to kneel over her, grab her by the back of her head and slam the knife into the side of her skull. She subsides with a groan, toppling over in dead weight when Rick lets her go.

"Rick!"

Rick looks up to see Daryl standing in the doorway to his house, a horrified look on his face. Rick looks back at the two bodies in front of him and, after another moment, kneels down to bury his knife in the dog's skull as well. He's not sure if animals can turn but he's not willing to take any chances.

When he stands back up he wipes the black goo off of his knife onto the leg of his jumpsuit and Daryl hisses his name again, beckoning him over. "Get inside, Rick! Right now!"

Rick nods and follows him in, after going to the car and taking the keys from inside, locking it behind them. Food and weapons are going to start becoming precious and he won't lose such a good haul to another one of Daryl's overly-nosey neighbors. Especially if there are others who haven't turned yet.

He goes to Daryl and follows the man in, letting the screen door close behind him. The house is unoccupied and it stinks of mold and damp and he wrinkles his nose but doesn't comment on it. This is, after all, where Daryl lives.

"Merle's not here," Daryl says with a huff, kicking at an empty beer bottle that is heavy with dust. "Must'a gotten himself committed again, the asshole."

"Prison's probably one of the safest places for him," Rick offers, setting his knife down on a side table that bears a broken picture frame with no picture inside of it and a pristine-looking crossbow. He nods to it. "That yours, then?"

Daryl nods, taking the gun out from the back of his scrub bottoms and setting it down next to the crossbow. "Quieter than a gun, and I actually know how to use the thing. Can make arrows, too, so we won't run out."

Rick smiles. "Wonderful."

"Come on. We'll find you some less flashy clothes and stock up before heading out. We'll put my bike on the truck."

Rick hums and follows Daryl from the main room, down a small hallway separating it from what he assumes is Daryl's bedroom. There's another room, the door open and the bed unmade, and a bathroom on the other side of that, but Daryl leads him straight to the end and shoves the door open with a small grunt.

"In here," he says, and starts to dig around in a nearby chest of drawers for clothes. Rick plants himself on Daryl's bed, admiring the dark blue color of the single thick blanket laid over it. It's soft to the touch and warm from sunlight slanting in from the window next to it. Daryl throws a duffle bag into his lap. "There are guns in Merle's room, probably some other stuff worth usin'. Go root around in there while I stock up in here," he orders, the words coming from him quickly like he's not sure he's supposed to be ordering Rick around but unwilling to let themselves waste any more time. Rick nods and stands up again and goes into the other bedroom. The smell in here is worse and it's clear that no one has been in in this room for a long time. He goes to the closet first and opens it, grunting when the doors stick and creak when he moves them. There are guns laying on the floor inside and he smiles and grabs them. A shotgun, a heavy pistol… He frowns. It looks like one of the standard issues for cops. Something ugly twists in his stomach and he shoves the gun into the duffle bag with another huff along with the shotgun. There are a few boxes of bullets that he takes as well, before he stands and puts the duffle bag on the unmade bed.

There's a chest of drawers in the corner and he opens them all, sifting through the clothes he finds there. They stink of sweat and blood, there are stains under the arms of all of them, and he blanches when he figures out the reason the room smells so wet is because at the bottom there's a wadded-up pile of clothes covered in what he can only assume is vomit and urine. Next to it is an empty sandwich bag with dustings of white powder inside. So, a junkie brother. Well if that doesn't shed a little light on Daryl's tightly-sealed past. Or present.

Maybe not his future, though. His brother isn't here, and they'll be long gone by the time he breaks out of whatever hole he's crawled into or been sent to. Maybe they'll find each other again. Maybe the end of the world will cleanse Daryl's brother of his addictions and his time in prison will have renewed him as a person. Maybe he's not a bad person anyway, but as much as Daryl has told Rick about his past, he's never mentioned Merle with anything like affection or love. Obligation, maybe. Or maybe that's just how Daryl is with family.

This house is not a home. There are pieces of Daryl in it, Rick can see that, but Rick gets the sense that Daryl treats this place like Rick treated his cell in the asylum. It's a transitioning place. Nothing permanent, nothing worth carving oneself into.

Rick hums and takes the bag, finding nothing else of use in Merle's room, and returns to Daryl's. Daryl has changed since he left, clad now in a sleeveless black shirt and jeans, a leather vest over his back with a pair of angel wings sewn into them. The clothes look well-worn and old, but comfortable, and Rick can't stop himself smiling when he sees Daryl.

He clears his throat to let the other man know he's there. In a world like this sneaking up on one another isn't the smartest thing to do when it comes to survival. They will need to always know where each other is. They will always need to be around each other if they can.

Daryl whirls around, his cheeks pinking for a reason Rick can't figure out. "Find anythin'?" he asks, wiping his hands on his jeans, and Rick holds up the bag.

"Couple'a guns," he says with a shrug.

"Alright," Daryl says, and jerks his head towards the bed where there's already a second duffle sitting there, stocked with extra arrows and more clothes. "I think I found somethin' that'll fit you reasonably well. Here." He hands Rick a t-shirt and another pair of jeans with a belt, and some black socks bunched together on top. "Merle's boots will probably fit you well enough until we find something else. Go change in the bathroom."

"Thank you, Daryl," Rick replies, taking the clothes with another smile, and he goes into the bathroom when Daryl grunts and ducks his head away from Rick's bright gaze. Rick turns on the light and listens to the little fan sputter and groan to life. The mirror in the bathroom is missing so he can't see himself, and he rests the clothes next to the sink and closes the door behind him.

The shirt is too wide for his shoulders, he doesn't have the muscle to fill out Daryl's clothes like the other man does. The jeans are too wide as well and he cinches the belt as tightly as he can around his waist. He's unlikely to get much fatter with food about to go scarce and their days spent on the move, but hopefully he'll gain enough muscle in the coming days of fighting and raw survival that is to come.

He rubs a hand over his face, grimacing at the thick mess of scruff clinging to his cheeks and throat. The residents at the facility hadn't been allowed razors or other means to shave or groom themselves, for obvious reasons, but he's hopeful he'll be able to find something to shave with soon. Or at least cut his hair. It's starting to get long enough to bother him and tickle the back of his neck.

Maybe he can convince Daryl to cut his hair. And then he can cut Daryl's. If the man lets him near his neck with anything sharp.

Rick isn't sure what Daryl thinks of him in terms of threat level. He's clearly comfortable enough to let Rick have weapons, but then again in this kind of world now, leaving someone without a means to defend themselves would be the same as signing their death warrant. Still, Daryl had never seemed particularly uncomfortable around Rick, or any of the other residents. He isn't a prey animal, wide-eyed and wary. He's a hunter, a predator in his own right. He's big enough and muscled enough to hold his own in a fight with most men, Rick is sure. He'd damn sure be able to take Rick down if it came to that.

Still, Rick has been diagnosed as insane. Religious delusions. Paranoid schizophrenia. Narcissistic personality disorder. Dangerously charismatic. Psychotically driven. Too level-headed. Too cold. Too passionate.

Rick sighs, bracing his hands on either side of the sink, and closes his eyes. His fingers clench. "I'm not crazy," he whispers. After all, he'd been right. His visions, his dreams, his _delusions_ had come true. "I'm _not_ crazy."

He pushes himself away from the sink and yanks the door open, and almost runs into Daryl. "Fuckin' _Christ_ ," Daryl hisses, dropping the two duffle bags and visibly flinching away from Rick, reaching for one of the knives Rick can see in the open bags.

Rick stops, giving Daryl space and time to calm himself down. When Daryl takes a deep breath, Rick reaches out, and Daryl flinches from him again, biting his lower lip as he tries to cover the action by grabbing for the bags.

"Are you afraid of me, Daryl?" Rick asks quietly, following him back out into the main room.

Daryl scoffs, but doesn't answer.

Rick decides to amend his question. "Are you afraid?"

"Of course I am," Daryl replies with a hiss, going to the small space in the corner of the main room that Rick guesses is meant to serve as a kitchen. "Fuck's sake, Rick, there are Goddamn dead people walking around trying to eat anything that moves. I just watched people I've known and cared for for _years_ just turn and try to eat me. I'm a little fucking freaked out."

"If it's any consolation, I doubt it's personal."

Daryl turns to look at him, an expression on his face like he can't decide if he wants to punch Rick right in his face, or laugh in it. "That…ain't much of a consolation," he bites out, before he lifts Rick's mostly-empty duffle onto the counter and starts to go through the cabinets for food. "Fuck, I _knew_ those people, Rick. They were the closest thing I had to friends, and now they're all dead or worse."

Rick sighs. It's a sad, quiet sound, before he walks over to Daryl's side and starts to help him look through the cabinets. There are cans of food that he packs, and boxes of cereal that, while they could go stale, certainly won't spoil to the point of being inedible. He doesn't bother with anything in the fridge.

"Would you like to talk about them?" Rick asks, turning back to Daryl when the man pauses to look at him. "The caretakers. I didn't know a lot of them myself except you, Woodmore and Miriam. I mean, I knew the other residents but…" He shrugs one shoulder. "I'm sorry. I guess I just don't feel their loss like you do."

"What if it had been your family?" Daryl asks. "Your boy? What if he'd been the first to turn?"

Rick's mouth twists, that ugly feeling running up the back of his neck again like someone is running oil-slick, cold hands up his spine. "Then at least he wouldn't be suffering," he says after a moment, and goes back to reorganizing his duffle bag so that the guns are on top and therefore more easily accessible. "You have to understand, Daryl – the survivors, whoever is still alive, and whoever is still alive at the end of the year…they'll be afraid. They'll be starving. They'll have had to kill or be killed. People are going to change. The other caretakers and the doctors – yes, they were overrun, but if they hadn't been they probably wouldn't have made it anyway. There are certain things we have to be able to _do,_ now. You have to…pick your people. Pick the group that you are going to protect, and care for, and kill for, and you have to do that with everything that you have."

"So that's that, huh? Us and them? Kill or be killed?"

"Until I stop it," Rick says with a nod, lifting his eyes to meet Daryl's. "I will kill for you, and I will take care of you. And if we find my family, and we find your brother, then I will kill for them and take care of them as well. All I ask is to be given the same."

Daryl licks his lips but doesn't look away. It looks like he's searching Rick's eyes for something – or maybe deeper, down to his soul. Rick wonders what he might actually be seeing there.

"We have to stop the horsemen, Daryl," Rick says when Daryl doesn't reply for a long, long moment. "I'll know them when I see them. I'm sure of it. And when they're all dead, then it'll be over, and we can go back to the way things were. People will recover. People are good at that."

"You didn't know them before," Daryl replies roughly, his voice hoarse like he's been screaming his whole life. Maybe he has. Maybe, in this new world, Daryl can flourish into the person he's meant to be. Rick believes that Daryl is destined and capable for far more than just to be nurse and babysitter to bad people. He deserves the world and this one will burn and from it a new one will rise, pure and clean, and it will be his. "The three men you killed. You thought they were the horsemen but you were wrong. How can you be so sure you'll know them now?"

Rick smiles and zips his duffle bag closed. "Now they've awoken. Death came to me, which means he's walking the Earth. So are they. And there will be…signs. If I learn how to read them and pay attention and obey Death, he will guide me to them. I _know_ this."

"I can't believe you," Daryl whispers, and shakes his head, finally breaking his eyes away from Rick's. "You have to get it, Rick. I _can't_ believe you. Not yet."

"I'll prove myself to you," Rick says, panic settling like a snake around his neck at the thought of Daryl pulling away, of losing faith, of _leaving_. Daryl shakes his head again and licks his lips, shouldering his own duffle bag that's now laden with clothes, food and weapons. "I'm _not_ crazy, Daryl. I saw this coming. I can fix it!"

Daryl shakes his head one more time, turning to Rick and jabbing an accusing finger at his chest. "You started this whole thing. _You_ brought it to us. _You_ killed James, and those other men, over this _belief_ that _Death_ is coming to you and telling you to kill more people! That's, like, _textbook_ crazy, Rick!"

"I'm _not_ crazy," Rick growls. "You saw with your own eyes, Daryl. These people ain't sick, they ain't just low on their fucking _meds_ , they're dead and they're eating people and _that's_ real!"

"I can't just jump on your magical fix bandwagon, okay?" Daryl bites back. "Look, I'll ride with ya, and I'll travel with ya, but as soon as this gets too crazy, if I even _smell_ something off about something you say, or do, I'll plant one between your eyes myself."

Rick blinks at him, before he relaxes with a relieved sigh and a smile. "So you'll stay with me?"

Daryl huffs a breath, sounding defeated and raw. "Yeah. 'Course I will. You're the only one who seems to have a plan, anyway."

Rick steps forward and grabs both of Daryl's hands, holding them tightly. " _Thank you_ , Daryl," he says quietly, emphatically, like a prayer. Daryl bites his lip and tugs his hands away and Rick lets them go, his fingertips dragging across Daryl's knuckles before the touch separates.

"…We should get goin'," Daryl says. "'Fore they clean the station out."

"Right," Rick replies with a nod, grabbing his bag and following Daryl outside as the other man grabs his crossbow and hefts it onto his shoulder. Rick takes the other gun and his knife and follows him outside. Daryl goes to the old truck, first, throwing everything into the bed of it, and Rick follows suit before he goes back to the cop car. Daryl goes to the motorcycle and Rick would protest taking the vehicle, but it's smaller and faster even if it is louder, and who knows when they might need to take separate vehicles. At least this way Daryl will be in the truck with him for the ride.

In police vehicles there are typical, standard things one can expect to find. A rifle, for instance, tucked into the truck. A taser. Extra magazines already loaded. A first-aid kit, an extra set of handcuffs. If there had been anything left of the police officers that had fallen, or if he'd thought to raid the other cars first, they'd have more, but they're going alright so far. At least the bullets in the car fit the rifle, and the pistol he found in Merle's closet.

He hopes Shane thought to grab his old gun from the house before they fled. If they fled. He hopes they fled. But the day is young and the nightmare is only twenty-four hours old. Who knows what state the country is in.

He brings the rest of the haul, including the bags of things they'd scavenged from the facility, to the truck and packs it in around the wheels of Daryl's motorcycle. It really is an attractive bike and gleams dully in the daylight. He can picture Daryl on it, looking comfortable and at home, the wind whipping his hair from his face, his eyes narrowed and focused. He smiles.

"You're riding shotgun," Daryl orders as he climbs into the cab of the truck and leans over to open the door for Rick. "Shouldn't'a let you drive in the first place."

"Worried someone's gonna pull us over?" Rick asks, grinning as he climbs into the passenger side and closes the door behind him, before he pulls on his seatbelt.

Daryl snorts. "Well, guess not, but still. It's the principle of the thing."

Rick subsides with a shrug, and remains silent as Daryl turns the truck on. The machine gives a protesting series of wracked-sounding coughing noises before it roars to life and settles into a loud, rattling idle. Daryl pulls on the clutch until it swings into reverse and starts to back out.

Rick reaches for the radio and turns it on. A woman's voice comes over the air, urgent sounding and afraid;

_"What can only be described as a deadly flu virus has taken the state by storm. Several medical facilities across King County and the Greater Atlanta Area have been overrun and shut down as the virus continues to spread. Several violent outbreaks have happened in the more densely populated areas. Citizens are urged to stay in their homes to try and wait out the virus if possible. Medical units are on standby for extreme emergency and can be reached -."_

"Turn it off," Daryl mutters, reaching out to press on the power button on the radio, and Rick looks to him with a raised eyebrow. "We know the world's fucked. Don't need to hear about the panic setting in. Puts my teeth on edge."

"Do you have a phone with State-wide news?" Rick asks, and Daryl shakes his head. "We should find out. See how much it's spreading. If outbreaks have happened elsewhere, too."

"Elsewhere?" Daryl repeats, his voice high.

"Well, think about it, Daryl," Rick says with a shrug. "All you have to do is die to turn. James isn't the only person who will have died yesterday. It could be _everywhere_ by now."

"Jesus Christ," Daryl breathes, bringing his hand up to his mouth to chew on the cuticles. "So many people are gonna die."

Rick nods.

"You think it's just the States?" Daryl asks, looking over to Rick as though begging him to say 'Yes'. "Or…the whole world?"

"Probably the whole world," Rick replies with another small nod. "Pestilence's reach is wide and has no favorites."

"What if these…horsemen you gotta find – what if they ain't even in the States, Rick? What then?"

"They'll be here," Rick says.

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because they'll be looking for me, too." Rick leans onto his knees, elbows braced against them, and rubs his hands over his mouth. "'Cause I'm after them. If I'm winning, if I'm still alive, they'll try and hunt me down. I'm Death's vessel. If I'm still around, I could still win. So, they'll be looking for me. They'll try and come for me."

"Fuckin' great," Daryl scoffs. "Now you got a bullseye on your back too, huh? Now we gotta fear the living just as much?"

"Don't be naïve, Daryl," Rick says with a disapproving look. "You should have always been afraid of the living."

 

 

 

 

They don't even make it to the station. Daryl turns a corner and slams on the breaks to avoid rear-ending a Civic in front of him. The hazards are on the car but it's not running, and Daryl lets out a low curse as he sees the rows and rows of cars stretching out ahead.

"Evacuations," Rick says, his mouth twisting. "I'd hoped we'd've had more time before that started."

"We should be doing the same thing," Daryl hisses, pushing the truck into reverse and backing away onto the road before, then turning to continue down it. There are vehicles littering the sides in various states of abandonment. A crash had happened a few blocks ahead. Rick can see the lights and smell the leaking engine.

"We should," Rick agrees. "But we need weapons. Ammo." He reaches out to put a hand on Daryl's arm. "Let's go to my house. My family might still be there, and if not that, then maybe they left some of my weapons behind."

"Where to?" Daryl asks. "Your wife seems like the suburbia type."

At that, Rick can't help letting out a small smile. "You're not wrong," he says, and gestures for Daryl to make a left-hand turn. "That way. Third right. Keep going."

Daryl follows his direction, guiding his car through the zig-zag of cars lining the roads and the larger four-lane they're driving down. In front of them the lights are red, but Daryl can't see any other cars so he doesn't bother stopping and drives right through.

They both jump as they hear a phone start ringing. Rick raises an eyebrow, looking in Daryl's direction as the man curses and reaches into his back pocket. He doesn't have a modern phone, but a simple flip one. The kind that will probably outlive them all. "Hello?" he grunts. Rick hears a voice on the other side, low but urgent. "Fuck's sake, Merle, where the fuck are ya? We were just at the house." A pause, and Daryl curses again, but turns when Rick points him down a side-street to the right. "Alright. Shit. Stay where you are. We'll come get ya."

Then, he hangs up and lets the phone drop into one of the cup holders. "Merle's just outside of town," he says with a shake of his head. "Probably tweakin' out of his mind. Apparently the 'friends' he was with, one of them OD'd, he got out."

Rick raises his eyebrows but doesn't comment.

"Probably doesn't even believe this shit is real," Daryl continues, before he abruptly slams on the brakes again as he turns down onto Rick's street. " _Fuck_."

The road is full of walkers. Dozens of them, Rick can see, all massed together in the middle of the road around a burning car. Daryl immediately kills the engine, unwilling to draw attention to themselves from the noise, but there's one nearby that hears them. Rick hears it hissing, stumbling towards them, and his gut twists when he recognizes one of his neighbors. The man is missing an arm, his jaw half-torn off but still moving as it stumbles closer. Rick grabs his knife and opens the car door.

"Rick, the fuck you doin'?" Daryl hisses, but can't reach across in time to stop Rick from getting out of the car. Rick holds the knife ready, his jaw set, and advances on the walker. It shrieks at him, its eyes wide and white. Rick's breath comes in quickly, through his nose, the air thick with humidity and the scent of decay.

The back of his neck turns cold.

He steps forward and slams the knife into the man's skull, grunting when it falls at his feet and almost rips the knife out of his hand. He yanks back on it and hears another one of them groaning to his right, and turns to stab at it as well.

"Rick!" Daryl yells, and Rick feels the thing fall against him, making him land hard against the side of the truck. He pushes his forearm against its neck to stop it being able to bite him, but now the angle is all wrong to get a good stab in. He tries to shove it back but is too weak, the thing grasping and grabbing at him like he's the steak to a starving man.

Then, Daryl is there, throwing his weight against the walker and sending it flying. Rick stumbles, breathing hard, and watches as Daryl's arm comes up and he stabs hard into the thing's eye. It goes silent with another gurgling hiss.

Daryl steps back and Rick sighs. "Thanks."

"Don't you _ever_ ," Daryl hisses, turning around and brandishing his knife in Rick's direction, "take off like that again, you hear me? What if that thing had bit ya?"

"There's going to be danger everywhere, Daryl," Rick says. "I can't let something like fear or odds get in our way. The odds will always be against us."

"I swear, I'll put a bolt in your eye if you ever pull anything like that again," Daryl growls, then turns away as the herd of walkers in front of them apparently become aware of their presence. There's no way forward around the burning car with their vehicle, and Daryl curses again. His stance changes easily, ready for a fight, and Rick has a moment to admire how easily the other man shifts into readiness before the walkers are on them again. There are many, or at least it seems that way. Rick's knife finds a home in a woman's skull next, her blonde hair matted with blood and ooze. Then a man, and another man. He keeps Daryl in his line of sight and keeps his ears pricked for any sound of distress from the man, but focuses on the walkers coming at him with a vengeance. Like they recognize who and what he is.

The back of his neck still feels cold, and as he fights it slides down his shoulder, into his knife-wielding arm. He stops feeling the heat, and doesn't feel the ache of his body moving and dodging and fighting against so many enemies.

He slams his knife into the last one, breathing out harshly as the cold abruptly disappears from him, leaving him aching and sore. His arms tremble as he pulls the knife back out, too weak to do it just from his upper body strength, and shoves his foot against the dead woman's shoulder to be able to pull it out all the way. A little way from him, Daryl is standing, his chest heaving and his face shiny with sweat.

"Are you alright?" Rick asks, still breathing hard as he wipes a blood-spattered hand across his forehead.

Daryl's eyes sweep to him, wide and dark. "Are you?" he asks instead of answering, and Rick supposes that's fair.

Rick nods. "Still breathin'," he replies with a smile, and Daryl huffs and looks down at the mass of bodies around them. They had to have killed at least ten each. "Death was here."

"What?"

"I felt him," Rick says, standing taller and pulling his right arm across his chest, wincing when the joint pops in the shoulder. "He was with us. We're going in the right direction."

Daryl shifts his weight, looking around uneasily. "Do you…see him? Now?"

Rick shakes his head. "No. The warmth is back," he says, licking his lips, before he tucks his knife into the belt at the small of his back, blade outside of his borrowed jeans. "If you pay attention, and if he decides to show himself to you, you'll start to feel when he's near. The air gets cold, and time gets slower. It feels…like you're standing at the edge of the universe and gazing outward."

"I'll take reality, thanks," Daryl replies thinly, before he jerks his head in the direction of the burning car. "Come on, let's get what we can from your place and then go get my brother."

Rick nods, ducking his head as he falls into step next to Daryl. There's one more walker near the car and Rick ends it with a swift blow, throwing it to one side. His house is two down on the left from the car. The outside looks pristine, the windows unbroken, the whole area unlooted. The grass in the yard is green and shiny, a single sprinkler spraying out in little spurts across his place and his neighbor's. The windows are dark. Nothing else moves.

"There's no birds," Daryl whispers, looking into the top-most windows of the house. Rick cocks his head to one side. "No…sound. Nothin'."

"They won't be here," Rick says, finishing Daryl's unspoken thought. "That's okay. I trust Shane will have gotten them as far as he could once he realized what was going on."

After all, his family hadn't been with the undead. They might still be alive – or, if not alive, then not dead here. Perhaps, even, holed up somewhere inside the house. Wouldn't that be a neat twist.

The door opens to his touch and he sighs through his nose. The inside looks a little messier, evidence of a house lived-in and loved-in. He sees evidence of his go-bag gone, the front-door closet raided of coats and shoes. So they did leave. He goes upstairs immediately and heads for the safe in his and Lori's bedroom closet.

It's unopened, and he smiles when he keys in the password – Carl's birthday – and opens it. His pistol sits inside, gleaming dully with promise, along with two boxes of ammo for it. He takes the weapon out and holds it for a moment, loving the weight of it in his hands. It's been a long time since he held his weapon, longer than the days since being committed to the facility. It slides into his hand like an old friend, fairly thrumming with happiness at being in the hands of its master again.

He can hear Daryl rummaging around downstairs, most likely scavenging what food is still left, and so Rick takes the opportunity to grab some of his own possessions. Clothes that fit, for starters. They aren't hanging in the closet or in the chest of drawers anymore, but neatly labelled in boxes in one corner of the room. That's fair, he supposes. After all, he hasn't lived here for months, and his room had been destined to become Shane's.

He pulls the boxes away from the wall and sets the first one on the bed with a quiet grunt of effort. Inside he finds most of his work clothes, and his gun belt. He takes it out with a smile and sets it to one side. In the next box, he finds more clothes and quickly hauls Daryl's shirt off over his head, replacing it with a loose-fitting, thin grey t-shirt. He finds a pair of black, comfortable jeans and slides those on, setting Daryl's belt next to the gun belt on the bed. The clothes fit him the same as they always used to, and he can feel the horrors of the previous months sliding off of him as he dons them.

It feels like coming back to himself, as he fastens the gun belt around his waist and slides the Python into the holster at his side. The weight is familiar, the leather warm against his thigh, and he smiles more widely than he can remember doing in a while. He grabs a few more sets of clothes and rolls them up, stuffing them into one of Lori's old suitcases that he finds under the bed.

That done, he goes to the en-suite bathroom. He sees Shane's razor, still plugged in, and flicks on the light to reveal the rest of the bathroom. It's clean and white, just as he remembers it except with little accents of Shane thrown in. It really doesn't bother him, seeing his friend's imprint in his house. He loves Shane like a brother and Lori like an old friend and the mother of his child. He bears them no ill will, honestly.

He flicks the razor on and turns to the mirror, eyeing the scruff on his face with distaste. He doesn't bother with shaving cream, just wets the razor and puts it to his face in an effort to get the scruff off as quickly as he can. In this day and age, there is no time for vanity, but comforts will come few and far between and he figures he can indulge himself a little.

His hand burns as he works, and he shivers when the air turns cold again. He blinks, and turns, and gasps when he sees Death standing in his bedroom. The air around the shadowy, cloaked figure is dark as though someone is shining black light through fog, and he can't quite make out the edges of the figure's silhouette.

"Hello, Death," he says quietly, turning the razor off and setting it down. The quick job will do for now.

Death grins at him as he always has, head tilting down and Rick imagines he's admiring the gleam of Rick's gun. Rick's weapon is one made for death – there is no use for it in hunting. It is a weapon meant to take the souls of men, to put giant holes in their chests and their foreheads so that they can't be a threat anymore.

 _Hello, Rick_ , Death says, the voice slipping under Rick's hairline and around the back of his neck like a cold serpent. Then, Death's head turns, attention drawn by the sound of Daryl moving around downstairs. _You have a follower_.

"Yes," Rick says, exiting the bathroom and switching off the light.

 _I have no need of followers_ , Death says, the voice oddly light like discussing what food is in season this time of year. Death moves, hands shifting along the shaft of his wickedly curved scythe. For all the times Death has come to Rick, he has shown his weapon once, maybe twice. Rick is enamored with it. He imagines it feels like holding power in his hands, liquid and burning and raw. _My power does not rely on the faith of men._

"Maybe mine does," Rick replies, lifting his chin as Death grins at him. He knows what Death is saying – Daryl. There is no need for Daryl in Death's eyes. Rick has a mission. Extra weight will slow him down. "He is very dear to me. I won't let you take him from me."

 _He may be taken, your will or not_ , Death says, but moves again and the scythe fades away. Rick fights the urge to reach for his own weapon. It will have no effect, but Death doesn't take lightly to disobedience, or being cheated. Then, Death's head tilts to one side, the skull wavering for a moment. _But, if it is my servant's will, I will extend to him protection. I will only take him from you if he willingly gives himself to me._

Rick smiles. "Thank you, Death," he says sincerely, nodding his head in a gesture of respect and submission – Death answers it in kind, head bowing briefly in acknowledgement of their deal.

Then, Death moves towards him, one hand outstretched, and Rick shivers when the bones of his fingertips brush Rick's now-smooth cheek. _He loves you_ , Death says kindly. _As the Angels love their God. Treat him kindly, Rick._

"I will," Rick says breathlessly. Of course, he knows Daryl thinks of him as close to a friend. They are all they have at the end of the world, until they find their families again. He is not naïve enough to call that love, but Death's words warm him all the same.

Death nods and draws back, about to fade away, and Rick steps forward. "Wait!" he calls, and the skull looks at him, hollow eyes as black as the night between stars. "Where should we go? Where would you have me go?"

Death considers him for a moment. _Go to Atlanta_ , Death says, before the vision fades away from Rick's sight entirely and warmth returns to the room. Rick feels his hand grow wet, and looks down to see blood soaking out from his bandage. He curses, closing his fingers, and grits his teeth.

Altanta. A major city, probably overrun with walkers. Daryl won't take too kindly to that.

He breathes out a heavy exhale through his nose and grabs Lori's suitcase before heading downstairs. He finds Daryl in the living room, sorting through the boxes of food, and cans, and other weapons he'd pilfered from the kitchen. He looks up when Rick approaches and whistles lowly.

"Don't you clean up good, Officer Friendly," he says with a nod.

Rick smiles, feeling his cheeks heat. "Shane's razor is upstairs if you want to use it," he says with a jerk of his head.

Daryl shakes his head, smiling a little. "Nah, I'll pass," he says, blowing some of his hair out of his face. "Well, your wife's got a mean knife collection, I'll give her that. Found some lighter food, too, but that's about it. You got anythin'?"

"Shane raided most of our safe, but I found this," Rick says, gesturing to the gun at his thigh. Daryl's eyes flash to it, an unreadable expression on his face, before he licks his lips and nods again. "And some ammo for it, and I grabbed some of my own clothes."

Daryl's eyes flash to his hand. "You're bleedin'."

"Yeah. Happened when I was shaving."

"How the fuck you do _that_ when you're shavin'? Got a straight razor or somethin'?"

Rick can't help laughing, and shakes his head fondly. "Worried I'm going to hurt myself, Daryl?" he teases, and Daryl fixes him with a look like he wants to punch Rick but decides against it out of laziness and nothing else.

"I'm worried about a lot of things," Daryl concedes after a moment of silence, looking back down. "But yeah, you hurtin' yourself's up there. Rick…I know you were right. You saw all this coming, the apocalypse and shit, but you were still committed. You – I _saw_ what you wrote on the wall. Maybe we should'a grabbed you some meds too."

"I never took 'em anyway," Rick replies with a one-shouldered shrug, setting his suitcase down by Daryl's haul, and Daryl looks up at him with a raised eyebrow from his perch on the couch. "I'd put them under my tongue and then spit 'em out in the bathroom."

Daryl utters a low curse. "Fuckin' Mahoney was meant to check that shit. Worthless piece of trash."

"Hey, now, don't speak ill of the dead."

"Fuck you," Daryl says, but without much heat. Then, he sighs, standing. "Alright, let's get back to the truck and go pick up my brother. I'm sure he'll have his own two cents to add to this mess."

"Sounds like a plan," Rick says, helping Daryl collect their things and leave the house. He doesn't bother shutting the door behind him. "Then, we need to head towards Atlanta."

" _Atlanta?_ " Daryl repeats incredulously. "Fuckin' biggest city around here? _Why_? That place will be _crawlin'_ with walkers."

Rick hesitates in his answer. He doesn't want to, suddenly, tell Daryl how Death came to him, because he doesn't feel like he'll stop at just that, but be compelled to relate the rest of what Death said. Death is a candid fellow, and Rick doesn't think Daryl will take too well to what he had to say.

"Shane and I were both cops," he says instead, throwing his suitcase over the side of the truck when they reach it. Another stray walker approaches them and is put down quickly by Daryl before he throws his own haul in. "And when we were in the Academy, we used to watch shit like _Die Hard_ and old cop or apocalypse movies on marathons. And we agreed on an escape plan for shit just like this. And that plan included this cabin Shane's parents own on the outskirts of Atlanta. It's easy to defend and easy to secure. And we agreed that if anything happened to either of us, we'd rendezvous there. So, that's where he'll have taken Lori and Carl."

Daryl eyes him for a moment, chewing on his lower lip. Like he can tell Rick's full of shit, but isn't willing to be the realist and call him out on it. It warms Rick to think that Daryl trusts him enough to obey him even when he's clearly lying.

"Alright then," he says, and heads to the driver side door. "Merle, then Atlanta. Sounds like a plan."

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here comes good Ol' Merle. I don't feel like I write him very well but I'm hoping to find his voice pretty soon. Mentions of drug use/overdose in this chapter. You know, Merle being Merle. Happy Tuesday!

"You know what I'm going to miss most about the facility?" Rick asks lightly as Daryl expertly navigates their way around the edges of Rick's suburban neighborhood. They have yet to see any more major signs of disturbance except for the occasional walker that they just drive past now. It's strange how easily the human brain is meant to cope with new things to the point of apathy, how quickly it ceases to care.

Daryl tried to hit one, once, his face grim and his jaw set. Rick chose not to comment when he swerved at the last moment, avoiding the limping wretch of what had once been a man.

Daryl gives a grunt in reply. His fingers twitch towards the radio. He doesn't seem like a man who used to talk during long drives. Lori talks, Rick remembers. She likes to point out funny billboards, or sing along to the radio with Carl and Rick when they all knew the song. She likes to comment on how yellow the fields are turning or when the leaves start to change. Inane, innocent things. Rick likes that about her. It was always easy to tell when she was upset because she would go quiet.

"What's that?" Daryl finally asks when Rick doesn't continue. Like maybe he thinks Rick is upset when he's silent too. Rick has never considered himself a particularly conversational guy. He talks enough with his friends and family, and he likes to talk to Daryl, but usually in the facility talking meant you were in some kind of therapy and that's not and never has been his style. He'd rather keep his emotions tight to his chest like a hand at poker.

"The noise," Rick says with a sigh. He cocks his head to one side and looks out of the window. They have them rolled down, maybe so they can feel a breeze, maybe so that they never quite move past the stink of death. It's a reminder, he thinks, that they're not safe. There's no birdsong, there's no other noise at all. It's strange, he thinks. People should be evacuating by now.

Daryl grunts. "Won't miss that," he says. "The moanin' at night. Eddie goin' fuckin' crazy in his cell. Always creeped me out."

"I don't mean that," Rick replies with another sigh. "But yeah, that was creepy."

"What do you mean, then?" Daryl asks instead of acknowledging Rick's statement.

Rick shrugs. "I guess, more specifically, I'm going to miss Tuesdays," he says. "I liked Tuesdays."

"Tuesdays," Daryl murmurs. "Visiting days."

"Yeah." He smiles. "It was always the same ring of people. Like Jack's cousin, or Grant's wife and his kids. James' parents."

"You killed James," Daryl says tightly. As though he's determined not to let Rick forget. Rick nods and hums. "I don't understand you, man," Daryl adds with a shake of his head. "I don't understand any of this."

"I would rather be out, with you, knowing what's going on, than sitting and waiting for it to come to us," Rick replies stiffly. "What if someone had gotten sick and turned and I hadn't been there to protect you?"

"I think I would'a done alright," Daryl replies, his voice equally tight. Challenging.

Of that, Rick has no doubt. Daryl is a survivor, one strong and capable enough to take care of himself. But he wouldn't have known right away – not what Rick does. He wouldn't have known how to stop it, just how to _survive_ , and who knows what might have happened after. Maybe he'd go searching for his brother, or maybe he'd have gone to his house and been taken out by that neighbor once she'd turned. Who could say.

"I didn't mean to offend you," Rick says after another moment of that blistering, raw silence. He finds himself strangely uncomfortable in Daryl's silence, but he never has before. Daryl is the kind of man who says a million things with the jerk of his finger or the twitch of his mouth, or the color of his eyes. They're dark, now, the deepest blue of the ocean where the monsters live. Rick likes that color.

Daryl bites his lower lip and his shoulders relax, just a little. "You didn't," he says, but the strain of his voice betrays his lie. Rick lets it slide. He did offend Daryl, but he didn't mean to. It's just going to be a fact of life, now – humanity, they're stronger together. Pack animals in a predator's skin. Even now Daryl seeks out his family and Rick seeks his, though it's a backburning thought. They're stronger together, they're more likely to succeed together. And if Rick should fail, they will all fail together.

"There he is," Daryl says, tapping the horn once so it lets out a quiet little yelp, too shallow and sudden to draw too much attention. Rick straightens up and looks ahead to see the hunkering shape of a man sitting on the curb. He straightens, his face hidden because the sun is behind him, and Daryl slows to a stop.

"Hey, baby bro! What took you so long? Prom date stand you up?"

"Shut up, Merle," Daryl hisses, and there are at least seven layers of venom hiding the soft affection beneath it all. "Get in the car."

"Who you got here?" Merle asks, climbing into the backseat of the truck. Daryl doesn't even wait for the door to close before he's pulling away. "Got yourself a boyfriend?"

Daryl lets out a low growl, but before he can respond Rick turns to look over his shoulder and shoots Merle a smile. "Name's Rick," he says, offering his hand out to shake. "I was one of the crazy people Daryl was looking after."

Merle's grey eyebrows shoot up to the middle of his forehead and Daryl lets out a low curse. Perhaps Rick is being a little too candid, like Death, but he figures he should get all of the secrets out of the way. Well, most of them anyway. He doesn't need someone like Merle causing a scene when there are other people around in the future.

Merle is not what Rick had pictured when Daryl said he had a brother. For starters, he had thought the man would look more like Daryl. Merle is much older, his hair thinning where it still clings in little fuzz to his head. His face is rough with at least a week of stubble. His teeth are yellowed and dirty and his lips are chapped and wide. Were it not for the eyes, Rick doesn't think there would be any assumed blood between them.

Merle sizes him up just the same. Rick can feel it like he's put weights on Rick's head and tested him against a pound of golden hide. Then, he slaps his hand into Rick's and pushes the shake away, settling instead on an awkward, off-center high-five. He lets out a low whistle and slams the same hand onto Daryl's shoulder, causing him to jerk the wheel a little harshly to the left.

Merle was a prisoner too, Rick thinks. There are certain similarities between them. The hunted look in the eyes. The way the air feels against their faces. They're dogs let out of their pens, Daryl still holding the leashes, albeit loosely. Daryl's jaw clenches and he keeps his eyes forward.

"What, I break outta the can and I don't even get a 'Hello'? I'm hurt," Merle says, his accent turning his voice high and lilting like a scorned lover. Daryl shrugs off his hand. "Bet you didn't even think of ol' Merle, neither. All that pretty loot in the trunk and none of it's mine, eh?"

"You're free to use what you're able to," Daryl says tightly. "But I ain't turnin' back." Then, he sighs. "You know what's been goin' on?"

"Got clued in pretty quick," Merle says, sitting back against his seat with an overly-loud huff. Merle is a loud person, Rick knows that immediately. Hopefully he knows how to be silent too. In this world, silence is survival. "I break out, fresh and clean, and go to that good ol' Lizzie's house. You know the one, Darlena, with the massive tits you could suffocate yourself in. Well…" He sighs, shaking his head. "I get there, and wouldn't you know it, looks like Lizzie was partyin', and she partied too hard, 'cause she's coming at me all wide-eyed and open-mouthed, and it wasn't to service good ol' Merle, that's for damn certain."

"She turned?" Daryl asks, politely and pointedly ignoring the way Merle has decided to graphically mime out what 'Ol' Lizzie' used to do for him back in her living days. Rick turns to face forward as well, a little nauseous, though he's not sure if that's for the conversation or carsickness. Probably carsickness. He usually drives.

"Guess if that's what you wanna call it. Had a pretty nice stash all spread out, mid-party looks like. Kicked her away and locked her in the closet and partied all by myself 'fore I thought to call you." Then, Merle grins, slick and sly. Rick can hear it in his voice. "But looks like you had the same thoughts I did, lil bro. Got yourself a hot piece of ass to comfort you in these tryin' times. Poor Merle's got nothin' but a hand and a memory."

"I'm sorry for your loss," Daryl bites out, disgust and judgement written deeply into his face like someone carved it there. Rick resists the urge to reach out and touch him. He's sure it wouldn't go over well, either to Merle's teasing lilt or Daryl's nerves. His fingers curl into his jeans and find a hole in the thigh, and he frowns down at it. Animals must have gotten to it, but that seems out of place in his old house. Lori would never tolerate rats or moths. They must have been there longer than he assumed.

"I'm sure there'll be plenty of time for loose women," Merle says with a vague dismissive gesture. "But I guess we gotta focus more on what the actual fuck's happenin' now."

"It's the end of the world," Rick says, lifting his head and smiling over his shoulder at Merle. "The dead walk the Earth."

Merle raises an eyebrow at him, and lets out a low whistle. "Man, I know the hot ones are crazy, lil bro, but this dude must be _dynamite_ in the sack."

"Not that it'll change your opinion," Daryl snaps, "but we're not fucking. _And_ , he's right. He saw this all coming."

"Been saying it for months," Rick adds with a nod, his smile still on his face. He's not ashamed of what people will think of him when he tells them what he knows. All the good prophets were rejected at first. Besides, it's hard to deny the hard proof standing (or, in this case, shuffling) right in front of their faces.

"So…" Merle gnaws on something that might be tobacco, might just be a piece of tire for all he seems to be enjoying it. "What? You die, you become one o' them?"

Rick nods. "Headshot's the only way to make sure what's dead stays dead," he says, digging his finger through the hole in his jeans until he can feel skin. His nail tickles and he withdraws it, drumming his hand on his thigh instead. "Started yesterday. Gonna spread fast."

"S'already spread," Merle says in an uncharacteristically quiet voice. "Shit, if anyone who dies turns, the whole place'll be overrun in days."

Daryl grunts. "That's why we need to get outta here. Get supplies, weapons, hole up somewhere safe for a while, until the mass hysteria dies down. Until people get smart again."

Merle lets out a whoop, slamming his hand onto Daryl's shoulder again. "Great idea, Darlena! Knew you were more than just a pretty face. So!" He claps his hands together and rubs his palms. "Where we goin'?"

"Atlanta."

Merle is quiet a moment. "Now, here I was thinkin' you were turnin' smart. The fuck's in Atlanta?"

"Rick's son, his wife, his friend," Daryl says. "He's a cop, he'll have weapons, and they'll want to know Rick's safe. They're good people."

"They're probably dead people," Merle replies, his drawl like iron filings across a sheet of glass. Rick feels something unpleasant and angry drag up his spine but he forces himself not to react. "The fuck you doin' risking your hide for folks that ain't blood?"

"They been more a family you ever were," Daryl says. As he talks, the angrier he gets, the worse his speech gets. Like Merle brings out the worst in him. Rick feels the angry-shard sharpen to a point on his tongue, ready to strike like a venomous snake. "And they're smart. They ain't dead." His knuckles are white on the steering wheel. "Any case, you either come with us or you get out. Your choice."

"Yer in _my_ truck," Merle says, but it's petulant, the voice of a child who knows they've lost the argument. Rick hears him settle back against the seat with a huff, and then the creak and whine of the leather as he moves to lay down. "Fine, you lovebirds go on your insanity mission and drag ol' Merle to his death with ya. I'm grabbin' some shuteye."

"There is a God, then," Daryl says under his breath, and it abruptly dissolves the point of poison on Rick's tongue and he laughs, his head thrown back, teeth flashing. He sees Daryl's mouth twitch in a smirk. It's one of Daryl's secret smiles – one that Rick can't remember anyone else getting in a long while. With Merle's judgmental eyes out of the way, Rick reaches out and lets his fingers brush across the hem of Daryl's shirt in that familiar way he used to be allowed.

Daryl doesn't flinch at him, and his expression softens from the tight, tense and angry thing it had been before. Rick remembers Death's words to him and feels his chest grow warm and tight with affection. Daryl is his follower, his friend – maybe more if fate and circumstance could have allowed it. Rick has never been particularly religious, vaguely Protestant because that's what their part of Georgia demands, but he does believe in a God, and believes in things like the soul. Around Daryl, his soul feels comfortable and welcome, like two wolves in a pack.

 _He loves you_ , Death had said. Maybe not love. Maybe something like it, men in a war driven together out of need and out of shared experience. Daryl knows things about Rick no other living thing does, and Rick likes to think Daryl has shared pieces of himself that others rarely see.

They are stronger together. Maybe with Merle, too. And when they find Shane, and Lori, and Carl, the pack will be even better than it was.

 

 

They don't make it to Atlanta that day. Between the scavenging and the driving and the fight, they're all wiped out. Merle snores because Merle is the kind of man who snores, loud and uncaring, a bear in the woods to frighten other predators. Only this time it will merely draw them near.

They find a house that's been abandoned and force the garage door open so that they can hide the truck inside. There must be survivors like them that will look at a haul like that and think it easy pickings. They can't afford to lose the food, and even less to lose the weapons. The house they break into and clear is empty, one of the new ones in a new lot just built, advertising _Prime Real Estate, starting at $150,000_ , _three bedroom and four bedroom plans available_. It's the kind of place Rick would have retired in, he thinks.

There's still food in the house and apparently the male residents had been about Merle's size because he finds clothes that fit reasonably well. Daryl orders him to take a shower because who knows how long running water will work for, but the water doesn't run here yet. "Can't sell a home without running water," Rick mutters, frowning in disapproval at the smiling real estate agent's face. He doesn't know Deborah Jones, has never met her or seen her face before, but he hates her in a petty way. She's probably dead anyway.

"Guess you'll just have to put up with _eau de Merle_ and all its glory for a while longer," Merle says, grinning like a pleased cat as though forcing his stink upon them gives him no end of pleasure.

"I'll take the couch," Daryl says in response, shrugging off his angel-wing vest and draping it over a chair. "Keep an eye on the door."

"I'll sleep in the dining room," Rick replies, eyeing the space. The way the house is laid out, the door opens to a wide entrance with the stairs beckoning people upwards, but the living room on the right and the dining room on the left are wide open. He walks over and pulls the curtains shut.

"Insanity," Merle mutters. "I'm takin' on'a them nice beds, then. Night, lovebirds!" he says with a salute and a whistle. Rick watches him go, the heaviness of his steps and the sway in his walk. He looks sweaty. Might start detoxing soon.

Daryl, apparently, shares a little of the sentiment. "Should have just driven past him," he mutters, with that same off mixture of fondness and aggravation. Rick supposes siblings do that to people. Lord knows Shane had been a trial at his worst and could bring out the irritation in Rick as easily as the humor and ease. "Fucker even got high, so he'll start gettin' the shakes soon, start becoming a…"

He doesn't want to say the word. "We'll find somewhere safe," Rick says gently, reaching out and resting his hand on the back of the couch. Daryl is standing on the other side of it, using it like some kind of barrier between them. Rick doesn't like it, but it must be necessary. People like Daryl don't invite physical closeness when they're uncomfortable. And maybe Merle's jibes had landed harder than he'd let on. "Somewhere he can get clean, where we can protect him. Then we'll move on. It doesn't matter if it takes us a while at first."

Daryl blinks at him, and shakes his head. "He don't deserve that," he says. "Merle's a fuckin'…a fuckin' mess."

"But he's your brother," Rick replies, and finds it strange that he's imploring one of the kindest men he knows to compassion. Maybe Merle's door to Daryl's heart has been sealed off and locked long ago, but Rick can't believe that. He would never think that of Daryl. "It's okay. No one starts a marathon at a sprint."

"What kind of…?" Daryl shakes his head and huffs a strange, bitter-sounding laugh. "Fuck Hallmark, man. Makin' your brain go fuzzy." Then he looks past Rick, to the dining room. There are cushions on the chairs but not much else in terms of adornment. "You sure you're okay sleepin' over there? Ain't even a carpet or nothin'."

"I like the floor," Rick says pleasantly, straightening up and looking over his shoulder at it. "Besides, the door opens to that direction. I'm the first thing someone'll see when they walk in."

Daryl's eyes narrow. "I don't need you to protect me," he says coldly, and Rick knows that's true. He doesn't need Rick for protection. He already has it from Death.

"I never said you did," Rick replies, letting Daryl's anger settle inside of him like a shot of whiskey. Anger is good. Anger means there's a will to keep living, a will to turn his back on Death and reject his offer and remain with Rick. "But maybe it's something I need." At that, Daryl blinks, his shoulders lowering. "Daryl, there's a reason I became a cop, okay? And…I spent so long being taken care of. By doctors, by caretakers, by you…"

"Hard habit to break," Daryl says quietly, and Rick stops speaking. He blinks at Daryl, tilting his head to one side, and abruptly ducks his gaze, lifting his hand to scratch at the back of his neck. It's strange. He'd never considered that the compulsion to care for someone so strongly, to care for _Daryl_ so strongly, might go the other way as well. "But you don't need to keep puttin' yourself in the first line of fire, Rick. I'm…gonna be okay."

"I'm still going to sleep there," Rick says, straightening up and smiling. It doesn't come as easily this time. He feels strangely thin, and meek under Daryl's ocean-blue gaze. "I won't budge on that. I know we're going to find Carl, and Shane and Lori, and I'm going to protect them. But… Daryl, you're family, and I'm going to look after you."

Daryl doesn't answer. He shifts his weight, looking down and breaking Rick from the power of the tides. He blinks, one slow movement of his lashes, his hair falling to hide his eyes, and bites his lower lip. He shifts his weight again and looks somewhere in the area of Rick's chest.

"Yeah, well, you're family, too," he says, before he turns away and strides into the kitchen, and Rick guesses that means that the conversation is over. The warmth in his chest explodes outwards, bubbling and giddy, and he smiles.

 

 

Rick has had enough visions and nightmares to immediately tell the difference when he's having one.

In the visions, he has no free will. This is already destined, predetermined. He can't fight it, can only move passively through the horror and watch it happen and do nothing. His words, when they come, are meek and thread along on a fishing line, yanked from his mouth and forced outwards. There is no changing the visions. There is no altering their course.

This is not a vision. He walks down an abandoned highway, Daryl on his right, Carl on his left. In his hands he holds a long machete, the handle red and dripping with fresh, _human_ blood. Dirt and oil and sweat cling to his skin. Behind him, shadows move, but he can't make himself turn around to see their faces. They are his people, though, his pack, following his lead like sheep to a slaughter, or lemmings off the edge of a cliff. Behind them, farther back, a herd of walkers follows them.

He can hear them, and feel their breath and smell their stench like they're holding onto his back, claws ripping into his skin. He lets them, breathing deeply as his back burns. His hand aches, too, where it's holding the weapon. He keeps walking.

Beside him Carl, lets out a sharp breath. His eyes are wide. He's wearing Rick's old Sherriff's hat, the one that Shane always teased him about when he wore it, all the while lifting his eyes to shield them from the sun while Rick could see free and clear.

"I smell water," he says, and Rick becomes abruptly aware of how thirsty he is. He licks his lips and they crack. He tastes blood. Maybe it's his blood on the machete. Maybe it's not blood at all, but wine. Maybe if he drank it, he would know.

He looks down at it and licks his lips again. It shines like gems. Daryl reaches out and grabs his arm.

"I hear it, too," he says, urgently. His eyes are wide, the same blue as shattered stained glass. Rick wants to kiss him, to soak into him. Maybe Daryl's mouth is as full of water as his eyes are.

Behind him, the shadows of his kin move, restlessly. " _Water_ ," they all seems to whisper. " _Water. Lead us to water, Rick_."

He nods at Carl and Daryl and loosens his hold on the machete. "Which way?" he asks, and Carl and Daryl both head to the right. Rick follows them, anxiety curled up in his stomach when it means they aren't heading _away_ from the walkers. They can cut across and catch up if they're smart enough to do that.

They hurry through the woods, the air damp and resting on their shoulders like a psychical thing. It's amazing how vivid Rick's dreams are ever since he woke up from his coma. He can smell, and taste, and touch and it all feels so real.

Daryl's winged shoulders disappear around a tree and Rick lets out a startled yell, rushing forward, only to blow out a breath of relief when he sees the hunter come back into his field of vision. Daryl doesn't seem to have noticed his distress. Carl, by his side, stays as a silent shadow.

Daryl leads them through the woods and then they break out the other side of the swath of trees. There's a river, dried-up mostly. The banks are still muddy where water once was. Rick licks his lips again and looks behind him but he can't see the rest of his pack.

Carl rushes forward and they kneel by the edge of the stream, the three of them. They cup their hands in the water and drink, hastily – rushed. The walkers aren't far behind, after all. The blood on Rick's machete stains the dark mud.

They fill their water bottles and then run over the stream to the other side. No one follows. Rick looks behind him and sees shapes hulking out, humanoid but swathed in grey. Rick doesn't recognize them as human, nor the shapes of his kin. He's sure if he were to see them he would recognize them. Isn't that what faces of strangers were in dreams? Re-compositions, mish-mashes of what the brain has already seen.

They fall into the water as though it's a thousand miles deep, only their eyes and foreheads showing. " _Rick_ ," they seem to whisper, thickly through the water. " _Lead us to water, Rick_."

"I have," Rick says in reply, helpless. Daryl is staring at him, in the dream. Or maybe in real life, too. Rick feels eyes on him and he's not sure who they belong to. Behind the river, the walkers break through the trees. Daryl grabs his arm.

"We have to go," he says.

"We can't leave them," Rick replies. Maybe they can't even see the rest – Daryl and Carl. Maybe they're blind. Maybe it's all in Rick's head. Maybe he _is_ insane, imagining people who aren't there. He takes a step forward and Daryl's hand tightens and shakes on his bicep.

"Rick," he says, his voice far-off and meek. "We have to go, Rick."

"I can't leave them behind," Rick replies, his voice a low snarl. "Come on!" he yells, this time louder, jerking from Daryl's hold. "Get out of the river. Come with me! Get out!"

" _Rick, lead us_."

"I'm _trying._ "

"Rick!"

It's Daryl.

"Dad!"

Carl. Rick looks behind him and sees his son's eyes on the walkers, wide and terrified. Carl inherited Rick's blue eyes. They're full of anxiety and stone-cold acceptance. Rick will be responsible for his death. This has to be a dream.

The air gets cold, and Rick trembles and falls back. The walkers are at the water now, sinking up to their knees in it. His machete is still on the bank. The blood is darkening, turning brown. A walker steps on it and stumbles to its knees. "Get out of the river!" he yells. "Get away from there!"

They don't move. Daryl grabs him again and _hauls_ him back, into the trees. The walkers will feed, destroying his pack and feasting on his friends. The grey shapes have wide, accusing eyes. The faces of the dead, of spirits. Maybe of people he'll be responsible for. Maybe the people he will let down.

They disappear into the trees. Rick hears them being devoured, hears their shrieks of betrayal and anguish. It's so clear, even through the water. "Daryl, we have to go back."

"We can't," Daryl bites out, his hand never leaving Rick's wrist. Rick's hand burns, aching for his weapon. He turns it and holds onto Daryl's shirt instead and lets the man guide him. Daryl moves without effort through the trees, his feet soundless where Carl and Rick stumble, making noise, giving away their position.

They start to run. Rick's breathing grows heavy, and tired.

"We have to go back," he says again. "We have to save them."

"Rick!"

Something tugs at Rick's consciousness. An awareness that shocks him like a splash of ice water to the face. Rick jerks away from Daryl and then suddenly he's sitting up, on the dining room floor. He's sweating and raw, breathing hard.

Daryl is there, a shadow kneeling at his side. He's holding Rick's head and Rick's shoulder and Rick gasps against him, shuddering and sobbing. His face is wet and stains Daryl's shirt.

"It's okay," Daryl whispers. His hand is cradling Rick's neck, wrapped thickly in his curls. Rick is reminded of James, when he first started to break. He'd shriek and cry and sob until someone – usually the tiny redheaded nurse who worked in the kitchens usually – would come and hold him and pet him and soothe him. Maybe Rick's insane, his brain just as cooked. Maybe this is a dream, too. Maybe he never woke from his coma.

Daryl hums, lowly, as Rick chokes on another sob. "It's okay," he says again. "You're awake. I'm here."

"I don't know that," Rick replies. He clings to Daryl like he's hanging off the edge of a cliff. Maybe it would be better to fall. His mouth is dry and his jaw is cramping from grinding his teeth together. "Maybe you're not even real. Maybe I'm insane."

Daryl lets out a soft, disbelieving sound. "I'm here," he says, and that does make Rick feel better. He's sure his own subconscious has never been so assuring. And he's sure he would never be able to, in all his wildest dreams, create someone as amazing as Daryl and as grating as Merle even if he tried. "You were just having a nightmare. Reckon we'll all have them, eventually."

"Did I wake you?" Rick asks. His breathing is evening out, but he doesn't withdraw from Daryl. Daryl smells _real_ , sweaty and bitter with anxiety. He smells of truck oil and fear and vaguely like pudding cups. He smells _alive_.

He feels Daryl shake his head, his long hair brushing Rick's forehead. "Nah," he says. "I was awake."

"I'm sorry," Rick says, because he knows Daryl is lying. He must have said something, or moved, or moaned in such a way that Daryl had come to himself, tense with fear because sounds of pain are now sounds of a predator. They won't sleep soundly for years. Daryl's fingers rub in a circle at the base of his neck. "I'm sorry," he says again, and curls his fingers in a loop of Daryl's jeans. Daryl shifts his weight, allowing the touch, so that he's up on the balls of his feet instead of his knees, curling around Rick like a protective shield from the chaos of his own mind.

"What were you dreamin' about?" he asks.

"Death," Rick replies simply, and doesn't elaborate if he's talking about the thing or the act of dying. It doesn't matter. They are one and the same and they surround everything now. The room is warm, stiflingly so despite how cold it must be outside. Maybe that's just Daryl, though, his proximity. Maybe Rick will always burn around him.

Daryl nods again. "I was dreaming about fire," he says. Maybe that's why he smells like ash, maybe that's why he's so warm. "Lost my momma to it, years ago."

Rick blinks. Daryl has never talked about his parents. Even with as little as he knows about Daryl, he can guess the tale of Mister and Missus Dixon doesn't start or end very well. His training in the academy had told him about correlations, about _patterns_. One brother in jail and a drug addict, the other tough and callous on the outside and stashed with weapons and at ease around dangerous criminals. It isn't hard to guess, or think about, those grey-shaped people with sullen faces and hard mouths that had begat the Dixon brothers.

"I'm sorry," he says, but he's not sure he means it. Death is not a punishment. Death isn't cruel. It's freedom, liberation. And if Daryl's mother had been alive, and his father had been a little more kind, they might never have met. Rick won't allow that – he's possessive of his place in Daryl's life. He will fight to defend it.

Daryl grunts. "I'm not," he says. His fingers haven't stopped moving in Rick's hair, his other hand is warm on Rick's shoulder. His eyes are on the door. Rick can feel them as though they're on him. He's always on watch, always on guard. Rick needs to find a place where they'll be safe – where Merle can detox and Shane and Lori can love and Carl can grow. He needs to find a safe haven for them so that, when his mission demands it of him, he will be able to leave them and continue on, knowing that they will continue to exist and thrive without him.

Finally, Rick pulls back, more because Daryl's thighs are starting to shake from holding his position than anything else. He doesn't want Daryl to move away from him. Daryl, it seems, shares the feeling, because he goes to his knees and his hand moves from Rick's shoulder and neck but he doesn't get up. His eyes gleam in the darkness, deep and shining, and Rick licks his lips.

In the darkness, things feel calmer. In the garish daylight there is no hiding from the reality of the world, but here, in the house, in the dark, they are just two people. Rick's throat feels dry, his tongue heavy and dumb. He wants to reach out for Daryl again. He has always been fairly physically affectionate, craving touch even if it's just a handshake or a pat on the shoulder. Now he feels like a cat in heat, and wants to plaster himself to Daryl, to hear his heartbeat and soak into the feeling of having something living, breathing next to him.

Daryl isn't moving away. Rick can't see much of his face except for the vague blue glow of his eyes. His face is probably silhouetted too. He wonders if Daryl is searching for the same things he is. Unfortunately, the dark also makes them blind.

Then, Daryl clears his throat. He shifts his weight back onto the balls of his feet. Rick hears his palms rub against his jeans. "You gonna be okay?" he asks, voice low and raspy.

Rick swallows, hard. "Yes," he says, because it would be unfair to say otherwise. "Sorry I woke you. You should get some more sleep."

"Yeah," Daryl whispers. Then he pushes himself to his feet and lets his hand trail across Rick's shoulder as he moves away. Rick knows his shoulder is lower than Daryl's hand naturally falls, which means he meant for the touch to land. It warms him, knowing that Daryl might be just as touch-starved as he is. Living the life they both had, physical closeness had been as distant a dream as freedom.

"Goodnight, Daryl," Rick calls after him. He feels a flash of panic again, knowing Daryl's moved away from him, knowing that he won't be able to reach out and touch him. His fingers curl and dig into the bandage on his palm.

"Night, Rick."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Totally almost forgot it was Friday. Oops. I get a four day weekend, saw Rogue One today and I'm gonna be writing all weekend. Have a great weekend everyone and I'll see you again on Tuesday <3

The next morning, Merle is not well. The withdrawal has already started to sink in, Rick can tell. He's sweating, shaky, and moaning like a walker when they wake up the next morning. Rick climbs up the stairs because he had woken up and hadn't seen Daryl, and panic had spurred him upwards. He gets to the top of the stairs just as Daryl closes the door to the room Merle had claimed.

His face is stony, tired and angry. "He's comin' down," Daryl mutters, looking back over his shoulder with a look of thinly-veiled disgust. "He detoxes fast, usually, but it'll still take a couple days."

Rick hums. He wants to reach out to Daryl since the man is so clearly in distress, but refrains from doing so. Right now Daryl is a savage dog, hackles up, ears back. The intimacy that the night had brought them has no place for them here.

"Fuck," Daryl hisses, running a hand through his hair. "We should just leave the asshole. Fat lotta good he's gonna do to us anyway."

"We can't leave him," Rick says quietly. "He's your brother."

Daryl huffs. "I know," he says.

Rick regards him carefully. "We should go to the truck," he offers. "Get somethin' to eat. I'm starving."

He sees the shift in Daryl, from angry and withdrawn to open, more relaxed. This, at least, is familiar territory. Sometimes the residents, when they first come in, are confined to solitary while they sweat and beat out whatever substances they happened to be on. Some of them are caught and convicted so fast they're still withdrawing. Rick has never been in solitary, but he imagines Daryl must have cared for some of them, too.

Daryl's used to taking care of people. By offering himself as a vessel to Daryl's care, Rick is giving him something to do. Something else to focus on. It is a selfless kindness as much as it is a selfish pleasure. To have Daryl's attention is like a first kiss, shocking and soft.

He follows Daryl down to the truck, finding it undisturbed and unmolested. They fish around inside and find cans of soup, fruit cups and pudding cups – one of each for the three of them – and bring their haul back inside. There are no utensils in the kitchen, let alone bowls, so Rick snaps the tab back and opens it and tips the soup back. It's cold and overly salty but it's food. He's digging into the pudding cup when Daryl brings the food up to Merle. He doesn't follow, out of respect.

He scoops out the pudding with his finger, humming to himself as he does so. Rick had fallen into this habit when joining the facility. Even with all the noise and the moaning at night, the rest of the time could be so eerily and awfully silent. He likes humming, breaking out into whatever tune is on his mind. He likes the sound of his voice, how it vibrates in his throat. He hopes it doesn't annoy Daryl.

Daryl comes back about twenty minutes later and throws the empty containers into the sink, uncaring for the spray of juice and mess it makes. He runs his hands through his hair and sighs. "Got him to eat, at least," he says. "He'll start getting jittery, then mean, then he'll just sit there and moan like a whore until he's clean again."

He looks down, drumming his nails on the counter, and Rick perks up. "Where's your phone?" he asks.

Daryl looks at him, one eyebrow raised. "The car," he says with a shrug. "Why?"

"I remember Shane's number," Rick says. "If phones still work, I'd like to try calling him."

Daryl regards him for a moment, before he nods. "I'll be right back," he says, and disappears around the side of the room to where the door opens to the garage. Rick fights the urge to go after him. He _really_ doesn't like having Daryl out of his line of sight. He's not sure that's something that will be cured any time soon.

Daryl comes back with the flip phone and offers it to Rick, who sets his empty pudding cup down and flips it open. There had been no place for pen or paper at the facility and so Rick made sure to memorize Shane's and Lori's numbers, just in case anything happened. It comes easily to him now, swiftly remembered, as he punches the numbers in.

He lifts the phone to his ear as it starts to ring. It goes straight to voicemail and he lets out a low curse. Then, he tries Lori number.

It rings, at least. Rick closes his eyes, expecting to get the generic voicemail message because Lori never figured out how to personalize it, only to stiffen in shock when Lori answers on the fifth ring.

"…Hello?"

It's _her_. God, she's still alive. Rick lets out a shallow breath and smiles. "Hey, Lori," he says, his voice soft and warm and familiar. He sees Daryl move away, back to the couch – maybe he's trying to give Rick some privacy. Maybe he doesn't like hearing Rick's voice when it's sweet and affectionate towards someone else. Their love, whatever kind they have, he's sure it is a jealous kind.

"Oh my God, _Rick_?" Lori's voice goes high-pitched and shrill. Rick can hear Shane repeating his name, in the background, and Carl's little peep of 'Dad?' "Rick, _shit,_ we thought you were dead. We heard what happened at the facility, and -. _How did you get out_? Are you out? Holy shit, Shane! He's alive!"

"Lori, it's okay," Rick says, trying to make his voice soothing like he's comforting a wet cat freshly rescued. He shushes her and reaches his hand onto the counter as though it's her arm, brushing his fingers across it. "I'm safe. Daryl got me out."

"Rick, _where are you_?" Lori demands. "We'll come get you."

"No," Rick says and shakes his head. "No, don't. We have a vehicle, we have food and weapons, and we're in a neighborhood that should be safe." He licks his lips, his eyes on the back of Daryl's head. Daryl is purposely not looking at him or even in his direction, intently focused on his crossbow as he fiddles with it, laid across his lap. "Don't come back. Keep driving away. We can't move yet – Daryl's brother is withdrawing from a high. We're going to stay here a while, and then come meet you."

"Rick, you can't possibly think we're going to leave you," Lori says, her voice clipped. It's her scolding mother voice. She speaks to Rick as though he's a child. On the couch, Daryl's hands have stopped their restless movement and he's looking at Rick, surprise and gratitude written on his face. "Tell me where you are, right now. If nothing else we'll stay with you. Shane has guns, and we have clothes and blankets and food."

Rick pauses, considering that. His eyes meet Daryl's. Such a jealous, possessive love.

He sighs. "We'll be going towards Atlanta," he says. "After Merle is better. I'll see you then. Be safe, and give Carl and Shane my love."

Then, he hangs up, and puts the phone to silent. He's sure she'll try calling him, again and again and again. He won't have Daryl bear the brunt of her anger.

Daryl says nothing for a moment. Then; "You're not going to meet them?"

Rick shakes his head. "Merle can't move yet."

"He don't deserve your charity," Daryl says. "You should be with your family."

"I told you last night; you're my family, too."

"You've told me a lot of things."

"Do you think I'd lie?" Rick challenges, but it's not an aggressive one. He cocks his head to one side.

Daryl eyes him a moment longer, and then shakes his head. "No," he admits, and looks away as though unable to hold Rick's gaze a second longer. "But Merle don't deserve it and I sure as Hell don't think you should hang around with us when you could be with your family. Or at least have them come here."

"Won't risk it," Rick says, and then he stands up. The phone is bright with an incoming call but doesn't vibrate and doesn't ring. "They're probably halfway to Atlanta by now, if not there already. No sense them coming back if they're already somewhere safe. They can wait for me."

"They might die waitin'."

Rick pauses. He's by the back of the couch now. Daryl is looking up at him but not quite meeting his eyes. Rick wants to run his hands through Daryl's hair, test the softness, the shine of grease. He wants to feel Daryl relax against him.

"They might," Rick says with no inflection. Daryl's eyes flash up, then back down to somewhere around Rick's heart. "Death will tell me if they do."

Daryl nods, and turns his head away, staring across to the empty fireplace. It probably doesn't allow a real fire. Rick doesn't know.

"You really believe that," Daryl whispers.

"With all I am," Rick replies. "Do you?"

"No," Daryl says. "But I believe you do. So I guess that'll work for now."

 

 

 

 

When Rick wakes up, the sun is up and shining. He doesn't hear birdsong, or the skittering of animals outside like he used to hear in the time before. Lori would often send him out to chase away the racoons or, on one occasion, a stray cat, that had gotten into their garbage cans on a Monday morning. The absence of such a mundane sound irritates him.

He pushes himself to his feet and winces when his shoulder protests the fact that he spent all night on a wooden floor. He pulls it across his torso until it pops and lets his arms swing down with a sigh, before he walks across the entrance to the living room.

Daryl is not there. His crossbow is gone. Panic settles in Rick's stomach as heavy as lead and he resists the urge to call out for the man. He can't hear Merle moaning upstairs, or hear the sounds of someone moving around up there. His fingers flex by his sides and he goes to the kitchen even though he can see that Daryl isn't there either. The panic starts to flutter and grow wings, flying up to his throat.

He goes to the garage. The truck is still there, at least. It doesn't look like anyone's been out here since they ate last night. He goes back into the kitchen, feeling like a caged tiger eyeing the door to where it gets fed. "Daryl?" he chances, calling out softly, but gets no answer.

Finally he paces back to the dining room. The curtains are drawn. He goes to the front door and yanks it open a little harder than he'd meant to.

"Jesus Christ!"

Rick looks to his left and finds Daryl sitting on the porch, his legs on either side of a rung. He glares at Rick, looking startled. "Scared the crap outta me, man. What the fuck?"

"I…You…" Rick's breath dies in his throat. How can he describe the sheer, violent _fear_ that had gripped him at the thought of Daryl being gone? He's read about this kind of thing: _dependency,_ attachment, the pattern of an inmate developing a close relationship with one of their guards or one of their fellow inmates. It doesn't feel real, his need for Daryl, not yet, but he can't deny how panicked and helpless he'd felt when he'd woken up and not found Daryl where he expected him to be. "I couldn't find you. Can't go sneakin' off like that," he says instead, sounding weak.

Daryl snorts and turns back to looking at the street. He leans his forehead against the railing. He's smoking a cigarette, or at least he was. The thing is little more than the butt now. "I can do whatever the fuck I want," he bites back, but there's no real heat to it. He sounds tired. "You're not my fuckin' babysitter."

"Daryl." Rick takes a step forward, then stops. He wants to be _near_ the man, but Daryl's coldness chills him like someone injected ice into his spine. "I didn't mean it like that. Please don't be angry with me."

Daryl turns to look at him again. The crossbow is next to his thigh, unloaded but ready. The fletching of his arrows is bright against the wood, green and white and orange. Rick swallows, and feels transparent under the weight of Daryl's gaze.

"I'm not mad," Daryl says, and it sounds like an apology. Rick takes a step closer, hesitant like a wild animal, and Daryl heaves a sigh and closes his eyes. "S'just…being in that house… I don't like it. I'd rather be outside. And Merle…"

"What did Merle do?"

"Talkin' shit, like usual." Daryl huffs and takes one last drag of his cigarette before he flicks it towards one of the barren rings of brick surrounding a patch of dirt where flowers were meant to be planted. Rick watches the end glow for a second before it dies. "But maybe he's right. Druggies, they always got a way of gettin' to the heart of ya. You'd know that, as a cop."

The spiritual high. Rick nods. Sometimes he wonders if Death might have come to him sooner if he'd ever partaken. He smoked weed once with Shane in high school and had thrown up almost immediately. Shane had laughed and teased him about it for months. To this day Rick doesn't know how Shane managed to lie on his polygraph and said he's never done drugs.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Rick asks, and he knows before Daryl shakes his head what the answer will be.

Abruptly, their attention is caught at the sound of an engine. Daryl's head snaps up and he scrambles to his feet and Rick comes forward and grabs his arm.

"We should get inside," he whispers and Daryl looks at him with a raised eyebrow.

"Why?" he asks. "More survivors is a good thing. Getting a good group together -."

"Daryl, these houses were never lived in for real," Rick says. Something is tingling on the back of his neck, an inherited feeling for danger back from when their kind were little more than dumb beasts, driven by instinct. He thinks he can see, in his peripheral vision, the shadow of Death. "No one's coming home, that means they're here to raid. We need to get inside."

Something in his voice must hit Daryl, because the man nods after another moment and allows Rick to usher him back inside. He keeps his crossbow ready and Rick grabs his pistol, loading it swiftly, and they take their places at the dining room window. There's a small bench here for them to brace against, one knee up, ready, and they look out from either side of the curtains.

It's a red Honda, one that Rick doesn't recognize as belonging to anyone he knows. He can't see who is inside of it or how many there are, because of the angle of the sun glaring off the windshield. It drives down the street slowly, as though assessing the houses. Rick feels the prickle on his neck sharpen and grow cold.

"Who would come here?" Daryl asks.

"Maybe people like us," Rick says slowly. "Maybe people we don't wanna meet."

Daryl snorts. "Hard to be afraid of people drivin' a fuckin' mom car," he comments, and while Rick would normally agree, he knows firsthand that a vehicle is a vehicle. Necessity doesn't submit to reputation. The car slows at the end of the street, red lights glaring as the brakes are applied. Then it turns, smooth and quiet, and starts to come down the other way. "Looks like they're lookin' for something particular."

Rick bites his lower lip and tries to look and see if there are any signs of this house in particular being occupied. He's not sure there is any, but then he sees the driveway and utters a low cruse. "The truck left marks," he says, pointing, and Daryl growls out a swear of his own. There's a small smear of dirt and blood where the truck jumped the curb, barely noticeable, but it's enough if someone is looking hard enough to notice.

Sure enough, the car slows to a stop on the opposite side of the road. Rick lifts his gun, making sure it's ready. He's not going to chance _anyone_ coming in for a fight. Maybe they're good people, looking for others to join up with because packs mean better chances of survival. Well, in a way, Rick supposes. It means a better chance that when _someone_ dies it's not going to be _you_.

The car stops, and Rick still can't see who's inside. It's infuriating. The cold feeling has yet to leave. Then, the lights shut off and the exhaust pipe stops letting out little clouds of fumes. The driver-side door – the one closest to them – opens. First a little, then all the way, and a man gets out.

Rick's eyes widen. "Holy shit," he whispers, and Daryl lowers his crossbow as well.

"Is that…Shane?" he asks.

" _Fuck_ ," Rick growls, straightening up and sliding his pistol back into the holster. "I _told_ them to go to Atlanta!"

"I guess they were worried about you," Daryl replies. "Should we…go outside?"

Rick thinks about it for a second. Maybe if they remain hidden and pretend they aren't here, Shane will move on. He sees Lori getting out of the car as well now, Carl in tow and tucked under her arm almost immediately.

His mouth twists. "Yeah," he says. "He brought Carl and Lori here. I can't send them back."

Daryl makes a low, annoyed sound, and Rick thinks back to the look Daryl had sent him before when he'd talked about calling Lori or Shane. Something possessive and jealous has twisted itself around them, bound them together. He wants to reassure Daryl, but that's not where their relationship is right now, and he's sure Daryl wouldn't welcome such an open proclamation anyway. Daryl's shoulders are tight and his face is carefully schooled when he backs away from the window and gestures to the door.

"Go ahead, then," he mutters, his eyes downcast, and Rick wants to reach out and touch him and hold him by the hair and see his eyes, but he forces himself not to.

He hears the car doors slamming outside and makes a low, rough sound of irritation. Damn it all, can't they be _quiet_?

"Rick!" It's Shane's shouting. "I know you're here, brother. Come out!"

"God damn it," Rick hisses, and raises his voice for the last part as he opens the door and waves to get their attention. Next to him he hears the second car door to the garage open. Daryl must have done that. "Get the car inside and be quiet!"

Shane looks at him like he's gone even crazier than they claimed he was when he was admitted, but obeys without another word. Lori and Carl hurry to the door and Rick ushers them inside as Shane drives into the garage and Daryl closes the door behind him.

"How did you find me?" he asks.

Lori looks at him, then around them, her eyes widening when she sees the collection of weapons Daryl had brought in. "Shane hacked the phone you used," she says quietly. "Or something. I guess you can activate things like that. I don't know. Rick…" She turns around and looks at him, then, her eyes bright and afraid. "How did you get out? What's happening?"

"I told you to go to Atlanta," Rick says, his voice hard. He hears Daryl and Shane joining them from the kitchen. "Why didn't you just go to Atlanta?"

"Man, Atlanta's overrun." That's Shane's voice. "Fuckin' suicide tryin' to go there."

Rick turns around to argue with his friend, and freezes.

Death is standing there, between Daryl and Shane, the ever-present grin on the shadowy face. There's a hand on Shane's shoulder, bony and long-fingered. In Death's other hand, the scythe arcs forward, over both of their heads. He can see a sword in Shane's hand but he knows it's not there.

Rick stumbles back. His back hits the stair bannister. _And I heard the second creature say 'Come', and on a red horse appeared War…_

The Honda. A red Honda.

"Where did you get that car?" he asks. Lori didn't own it and Shane drives a black sedan when he's not on duty.

"It was abandoned in the street when all Hell broke loose. Didn't have time to get to my place." Shane is looking at Rick like he's afraid Rick will burst into flames, like he's a time bomb ticking down to the number zero. "You okay, brother?"

 _No_ , Rick wants to say, but it's Death's voice in his head.

Rick stares at Death, who grins back at him.

No mission given by Gods and forces of nature are easy.

He shakes his head and the vision abruptly clears. The sword disappears from Shane's hand. Death fades away. The room gets warm again. Rick blinks. Maybe it's just a test, like Abraham and Isaac, to put his conviction and his reason on the line. It can't be Shane. Rick would have _seen_ it before… Before.

But then, why would Shane come back, unless he felt the need in his vassal's skin and bones to destroy Rick just as Rick is destined to destroy him?

It can't be him.

He sucks in a breath and Daryl is looking at him like he knows what Rick just saw. Lori's fear is a tangible smell, like sweat and rust.

"Rick…?" It's her voice, saccharine and high. Rick closes his eyes.

"Why did you come to find me?" he demands, but his voice comes out weak and frail as though it belongs to an old man. "Why didn't you just go? You should be halfway across the country by now. Somewhere _safe_."

"We weren't going to leave you behind," Shane replies, his voice hard. He steps forward and slides a hand onto Rick's shoulder and Rick fights the urge to flinch from him, expecting the sharp edge of a blade at his throat. He clenches his jaw and looks down, with wide eyes, at Lori's shoes. They look a little worn, a little muddy, but she, Shane and Carl are a damn sight cleaner than Rick, Daryl and Merle are. "Soon as we knew you were alive I turned back."

Rick tries to smile. Shane is such a good friend.

"How did you get out?" Lori asks, and looks to Daryl when it seems Rick is unable to answer. Daryl shifts his weight and scratches the back of his head.

"Hid out overnight when everyone turned," he says, quickly like he's afraid to have the attention on him for too long. "Then, when the – when it was clear, we went to my place, grabbed what we could, picked up my brother, and now we're here."

As though knowing he's being spoken about, a loud yelp sounds from upstairs, and then a loud thud. "Mother _fucker_!" It's Merle's voice, thready and high and Daryl curses.

"Everyone stay here," he says. "Asshole probably fell outta his bed again."

 _Again_? Rick frowns. He doesn't remember hearing such a loud banging from before. Maybe the rest of his dreams had been undisturbed. Daryl disappears up the stairs and Rick fights the urge to run up after him.

The rest of them are left in uncomfortable silence. Rick doesn't remember being so uncomfortable around his friends and his family in such a long time. Even when he'd come home, blood on his hands from the three men he'd slaughtered, he doesn't remember being so shaken. Shane's hand is warm on his shoulder.

Finally, Carl breaks the silence. He looks up from under the brim of Rick's old hat, his eyes wide and relieved, and then throws himself at Rick's stomach in a tight hug. Rick hugs him back just as tightly, his eyes falling closed. Relief is allowed to touch him, then, flooding his senses like a drug and he lets out a rough breath. Shane lets him go and Carl steps back, their hug over.

"Rick…" Lori looks so pale. She has always been lovely and tan, able to spend hours outside and soaking the sun in like a lax lioness. The back of Shane's neck is red from heat and sunlight. "Rick, how are you holding up?"

Rick frowns, wondering how she can ask him that. She's looking at him like he's a dog on a very thin chain, a foreign one that might be friendly and might not be at the same time. Schrödinger's rabid animal.

"Why?" Rick asks.

"We're just worried about you, brother," Shane says. He's standing closer to Lori now, outwardly relaxed, but Rick sees the gun at his hip and knows enough about Shane's body language that he wants Rick to see it, see how close his hand is resting on his belt. Anger stirs in Rick's belly and he sees the glint of a sword in sunlight again. "I mean, if you saw the whole facility turn -."

"I didn't just see it," Rick says, and shakes his head. "I knew it would be yesterday. None of you believed me. But it happened and I was _right_."

"What -?"

"What supplies did you guys get?" Rick asks, looking to Shane. "We have guns, knives, clothes and some food."

Shane presses his lips together and runs his hand over his mouth. "Yeah, I got some guns. Clothes for Lori and Carl, blankets….Not a lot of food, but I figure enough people will have been turned quick enough that we don't have to worry too bad."

Rick frowns. Small minded, _selfish_. Shane just wanted his family out. For that Rick is grateful, but they can't be _stupid_ about these kinds of things.

"We should go to the station," he says. Shane's eyes flash to him. Rick isn't sure what he sees. Maybe Shane can see the skull behind Rick's skin, too, or the shadow of his scythe thrown against the wall. Maybe Shane feels the same uneasy, dangerous aura thick in the air. "There will be guns there, radios. Weapons. Bullets."

"Man, we can't go to the station," Shane protests. He doesn't want Rick even more armed. Rick's fingers twitch by his gun. "It'll have been overrun. Or cleared out. There's nothing there."

"We have to _try_ ," Rick growls.

"Carl, you should come with me," Lori says suddenly, grabbing Carl by the shoulders. Her eyes are on Rick's hand where it rests against the leather wrapped around his pistol like a lover. "Let's get you some clean clothes and get you cleaned up a little bit. Come on."

Rick watches them go.

"She's afraid of me," he says.

"Yeah," Shane whispers. Then, treacherous and soft; "Can you blame her?"

It would incense Rick. It _should_. It does, if he's honest. He's not _crazy_ , but maybe he is. He's not _dangerous_ , but of course he is. He killed three men in cold blood and has put down several walkers in the last twenty-four hours alone.

He turns around and glares at Shane. "I'd never hurt her," he hisses. "Or Carl. You gotta know that."

Shane presses his lips together, and looks Rick up and down. There's black blood splattered up Rick's arms, and his own blood staining one wrist around the bandage. He's sweaty and dirty and it probably won't be long before his clothes are stained again. It's a reality now.

"We got married, Rick," Shane says quietly. "After we visited you. Had an appointment at the City Hall and everything."

Rick smiles. It feels strangely like he's baring his teeth. He's angry, but not at that. He already let Lori go. "Benefits can't wait, I suppose."

"Yeah, fat lot of good it was worth," Shane says, shaking his head.

"I hope you got a honeymoon, at least."

Something passes over Shane's face, something uncomfortable and dark. A flash of red across his cheeks before it's gone. Rick is certain in that moment that Shane hates him, or at least hates that he survived.

"I don't want to fight you, Shane," Rick says. "I'm not going to try and 'get Lori back', or whatever. You're my best friend, my brother, and I meant what I said when you told me you guys were gettin' hitched. I knew you could protect her when the time came, and you did. And you protected Carl."

Shane blows out a heavy breath through his nose, his dark eyes shining with gratitude when he looks at Rick. There's no fight in either of them. Anger, maybe, or maybe it's just strings threaded too tight and high over the massive gaping crevasse that is the apocalypse.

"But you also came back to me," Rick says, stepping forward and lowering his voice. "And Daryl and Merle are my responsibility now, and you've made you, Lori and Carl my responsibility too. There are rules in this world, Shane. We all gotta follow them."

"What kinda rules?"

Rick smiles. "First, I don't wanna hear any of you callin' me crazy again." Shane's mouth twists, but he nods. "Second, no noise if we can help it. We pack light, and weapon-heavy. Clothes can be reused. Bullets and food are the most important things. You figured out the headshot thing, right?" Shane shakes his head. "Headshot's the only way to permanently put 'em down. Doesn't matter if they're already turned, if they die of natural causes. You get bit, get scratched, you fuckin' eat a bad egg and die of food poisoning, _headshot_."

"Okay." Rick sees the goose bumps on Shane's arms. He's scared. Rick lifts his chin and takes a step back, giving Shane his space. Shane is the kind of dog to attack when it's cornered.

"Everyone gets a gun," he says. "Or a weapon. No time to be uncomfortable or moral in a crowd like this."

Shane sighs. "Lori won't like that."

"Lori doesn't like a lot of things," Rick replies, and it's not said with judgement. Lori and Carl had the luxury of being uncomfortable around guns and knives. Now they all have to get used to it. Even Daryl might have to fire a gun. "You hungry? We have pudding, fruit and soup."

Shane snorts. "Sure, brother."

Rick leads him to the garage and flicks on the light and Shane lets out a whistle. "That Daryl's?" he asks, nodding to the truck.

Rick shakes his head. "The bike is. Truck is his brother's."

"The drug addict," Shane says flatly. Rick nods and Shane lets out a soft, ugly sound. "He doesn't…have a stash in there, does he?"

"You gonna arrest him?" Rick asks with a laugh, climbing up onto the truck bed and rooting through the laundry bags until he finds the one with the fruit and pudding cups. Shane lets out a low chuckle as well.

"Just hopin' this is the last withdrawal we'll have to deal with."

"You can still leave," Rick says. "Go to Atlanta. Set up for us."

"I think we can both agree Atlanta is a monumentally stupid idea, brother. Why you so set on goin' there?"

Rick finds a fruit cup and tosses it down to Shane, who catches it. He jumps over the edge and lands with a low grunt, before he stands and dusts his hands on his jeans. "You'll…call me crazy," he says.

"I think we agreed that we weren't allowed to do that anymore," Shane says, his voice carefully flat still. Rick can't tell what he's thinking since he immediately pulls the lid of the fruit cup back and tilts it back so the glazed fruit slides into his mouth. It's two swallows at best but it's enough for Shane to school his expression so that by the time he's finished and crushes it in his grip and throws it into the nearby garbage can, Rick still can't tell what he meant to feel when he said that.

Rick shakes his head. "Fine," he concedes, scratching the back of his neck. He still has his residency bracelet there, the plastic scratching his neck. He should find some scissors. "Death told me to go there."

"Death," Shane repeats. It doesn't matter that he doesn't say it, Rick can _feel_ the _You're fucking insane_ sitting on the back of his tongue. "This the same Death that told you to kill those guys, way back?"

Rick sighs through his nose. "No," he says. "That was me. That was my mistake."

"How many more we gotta kill, Rick?" Shane demands. "This ain't _right_." He doesn't turn towards Rick, but looks forward, to the tools lining the walls. Or rather, the dusty outlines of where they used to be. Daryl has probably raided them for anything sharp and usable. "I just gotta…I gotta know what you're thinkin' man. I can't just blindly follow you. I _can't_ , and I'm not gonna make Lori and Carl do it neither."

"Well, it's too late for that now," Rick says. "You brought them to me. Now we're all stuck to each other, no matter what it is you want."

"Which is what?"

"You want to lead us to safety," Rick says. His voice doesn't hold any judgement. It is not the personality of Shane or War to cower in the face of an enemy. Shane is a dog that will fight until it's dead or it wins. Rick isn't a dog. He's a ghost. "You want to be in charge. You don't think I can lead. You don't think I'm _stable._ "

"That's not what I said, man," Shane says.

"Your thoughts are loud enough," Rick replies, pushing himself away from the truck with a sigh. He turns to look at his friend. Shane's face is cloaked in shadow and he can't quite read his eyes. "But it doesn't matter what you think. I'm going to Atlanta when Merle's better. I hope you'll join me."

"Rick!"

Rick doesn't stop, and Shane doesn't chase after him. Maybe later, when the day is old and the night grows quiet, Shane will come to him and try and 'talk some sense' into him again. Don't they know you can't reason with crazy?

Rick chuckles and shakes his head. The front door is open and he can see Carl and Daryl sitting on the porch again, Lori standing on the stairs. He frowns and heads outside to join them.

"Where's Shane?" Lori says quietly, her voice urgent like seeing Rick coming back has just confirmed all of her worst fears. What has Shane told her already? It's not like Shane knows anything more about Rick than she does – they're the closest people in his life and he has never tried to hide anything from them. Except, well, the whole delusional vessel-of-Death thing. But even then, he hasn't tried to lie about it.

"In the garage," Rick replies. "Showed him our stash of food, gave him some." He looks down. He's standing behind Daryl, unconsciously drawn to the man's shadow, and nudges him with his knee until Daryl squints up at him. "How's Merle?"

Daryl snorts and turns away, squinting back out to the street. "Maybe we'll get lucky and his heart will give out."

"Daryl!" Lori gasps, and Carl looks at him with wide eyes. "You can't mean that. He's your brother, right?"

Daryl's jaw clenches. He doesn't like being under their scrutiny. Daryl, Rick senses, doesn't quite like Lori. He's never liked Lori or Shane, really. He doesn't hate her, but Rick remembers the one and only conversation they'd had about her – _I'd be pissed if I found out my wife was fucking my best friend_. Maybe Daryl feels some sense of righteous anger for Rick's sake. Maybe he just doesn't like white suburban moms. Who knew with Daryl Dixon. He wouldn't tell you.

"Nah, I don't mean it," Daryl sighs, lifting one hand to gnaw at his cuticles. Then, "So what's the plan, Grimes?"

Rick sighs and puts his hands on his hips, lifting his head to join in staring down the street. "Same as always," he says. "We'll stay until Merle's better. Then, Atlanta." He looks at Lori. "Shane isn't happy about that plan. I won't be mad if you both decide to leave with him."

"I'm not leaving you," Lori says tightly, her voice breathless and furious. Rick blinks at her but nods his thanks, his hand resting on the top of Carl's head as the boy looks up at both of his parents. Her hand brushes down his arm and Rick doesn't miss the way Daryl abruptly bites through his nail and yanks it until it bleeds.

"Shit," Daryl mutters, and scrambles to his feet. Rick moves to let him pass.

"I need to go," Rick says. "Please, come inside."

"We'll be alright," Lori replies, a little harshly, and Rick sees Shane's shadow in the doorway so he figures he can let them be. He carefully extricates himself from the clinging hands of his family and rushes inside. He can hear Daryl in the kitchen and goes to him.

Daryl's shoulders are tensed. "I'm fine," he says, clipped and sharp. Ready to bite. "S'just a finger."

"It bothers you," Rick says, "to see her touch me."

"Ain't no business of mine what either of you do."

"Daryl," Rick murmurs, "don't do us both the disservice of thinkin' that's true."

"Well, the fuck you want me to do then, Rick, huh?" Daryl hisses. He wipes his fingers on his jeans and turns the full force of his glare on Rick. Rick doesn't back off, and they're standing close enough that Rick can see the flecks of grey in his eyes. "That's your son, your ex-wife and your best friend out there, and they can say and do whatever they want because they're your _family_."

"Daryl, I'm tired of having this conversation with you," Rick growls, and Daryl scoffs and turns away, shoulders up and hunched, and Rick reaches out and grabs his arm and whirls him back around. "As far as I'm concerned you're my family too, and I'll be _damned_ if I let you think you're lesser than them or less important to me because I happen to have known them longer."

"Let go of me," Daryl hisses, and jerks away from Rick's grip. Rick lets him go and Daryl hits the kitchen island with his back, softly. He doesn't keep moving away. His breaths are coming fast and shallow – it's a panic reflex. Rick is threatening him. How?

Rick immediately takes a step back, pulling his arms in, ducking his head. He tries to make himself look as small and non-threatening as possible. "Daryl," he says again, and wants so desperately to reach out when Daryl looks at him. "I know it might not mean much to you, but you…you're important to me. You're my friend, and I want you near me. I _need_ you."

"No, you don't," Daryl whispers, and Rick can't find his voice. "I'm gonna go check on Merle again," he says, and then he's practically fleeing up the stairs, away from Rick as fast as he can. Once he leaves, the room seems dull and lifeless to Rick's eyes. He sighs and rubs his hands over his face and up through his hair.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of my favorite chapters so far, hope you guys like it (:

Lori and Shane take a second bedroom, leaving Carl with the third, the farthest away from Merle's space. Rick and Daryl sleep downstairs again. No one seems to question it, and Rick is glad that it's that way. He and Daryl are the front lines, the warriors, the first defense between them and the outside world. They have to be, because they _know_ , and they're ready. Shane, to Rick's knowledge, hasn't killed any of them yet. Lori and Carl probably can't, yet. Rick's in no hurry for them to start.

He doesn't go immediately to the dining room. Daryl is still tense, a wounded dog in the corner of its pen, ears back and dark eyes fixed on the movement of others outside. Rick sits in one of the uncomfortable padded chairs that flank the couch and face the fireplace. His eyes are on it, catching the details of the fake coals at the bottom, and the black maw of the chimney behind it.

Daryl is laying down on the couch, his back to Rick and to the room, but he's not asleep. Rick has heard Daryl sleep enough by now to know when he's asleep and when he isn't, and he definitely isn't. His breathing is too even, too shallow, and too soft. Like he's afraid of Rick knowing.

Rick sighs and tilts his head back, slouching in the chair until he's braced against the edge of the cushion. Daryl makes an annoyed sound.

"You gonna sleep, or what?" he asks.

"I'm not tired," Rick replies honestly. He has never slept much and even with the few shredded hours he got last night, he's sure he'll be okay for another day if he stays awake. He doesn't want to say what his main motivation is, though – he can't help but think, behind his closed eyes, that if he falls asleep for even a second, the shadow of War will cross into the room and slit his throat while he's unable to defend himself. He can't shake the vision of Shane from his head, coated in blood and holding the massive sword of the horseman. _He came in a red car_. The thoughts wrap around his brain like barbed wire, treacherous and strong. He wishes Death would come to him and put his fears at ease.

Daryl abruptly rolls over with another annoyed huff, and swipes his hand across his face to move his hair away so that he can glare at Rick in full force. "Your thinkin's keepin' me awake," he gripes, and Rick smiles. Daryl is speaking like he would about Merle, angry and annoyed but soft beneath it all. Rick opens his eyes and looks at the other man, warmth and affection settled low in his stomach like alcohol. "What's goin' on?"

"I'm sorry I scared you," Rick says, because he doesn't know what else to say. Daryl narrows his eyes at him, his nostrils flare out as he blows out an angry, protesting breath. "I know I scare people. I know Lori doesn't feel…safe, around me. Not anymore. I know there are going to be people who…think I'm insane. And sometimes I feel like I am."

"Kind of a moot point," Daryl says, his voice quiet now, like he's in a church. "I mean, you were right."

"I wish I could sleep," Rick whispers, turning his face away towards the fireplace again. "I wish I could dream. But all I dream about now is this. Have since the coma. And sometimes they're not dreams. They feel like the future, something I can't stop." He takes in a shaky breath and remembers one such vision, a blonde covered in blood and Daryl bent over her corpse, silent with grief while another woman _screamed._

"So you can see the future now?"

"God, I hope not." Rick leans forward and shoves himself back so that he's sitting on the chair properly again, and rubs his hands over his face and up through his hair until they curl and his fingers link at the back of his neck. His wristband catches and he straightens, looking at it.

Daryl notices. "We should cut that off."

"Maybe we shouldn't," Rick says. "It marks me. Lets people know…that I'm dangerous. That I'm crazy."

"What do you want me to say?" Daryl demands, pushing himself upright. One arm braces against the couch cushion, supporting his weight, and he nods to Rick's wristband. "That you ain't? Shit, Rick, you _are_ insane. Even without the visions, I read your chart. You've got a whole mess of issues, man. We all do."

Rick hums. "You're right," he says. "I'm not special."

"That's not what I said."

"I used to be able to tell exactly what people meant to say when they talked," Rick murmurs. "It was my _job_. Shane's, too. We can say a whole lotta shit without usin' the words." His fingers curl and bend and he tugs at the wristband, before he sighs. "Do you think I'm dangerous, Daryl? Do you think I'd hurt you?"

Daryl sighs. It's a soft thing, like a summer breeze. Rick closes his eyes. "No," he replies, and Rick opens his eyes again to look at the man. Daryl's face is open and honest, shadowy in the dark and half-hidden by his hair again.

"I wouldn't," Rick says, heavily. "I wouldn't hurt you. I _wouldn't_."

"I believe you."

"I should let you get some sleep." Rick pushes himself to his feet and Daryl lets himself fall back onto the couch and pulls one of the spare sheets Lori brought up over his bare shoulders. Rick walks forward and stops by Daryl's head. His fingers curl. "Daryl, I…"

He stops talking. He's not sure what he would say even if his tongue hadn't abruptly turned to stone in his mouth. He wants to reach out and touch Daryl so badly that his hands are shaking.

"What, Rick?" Daryl asks, quiet and still like a rabbit in an open field. Aware, tense, twitching. Ready to bolt. Would he calm under Rick's hands? Would he come alive? He _feels_ pale, and thin, like he's fading from the world.

Rick sighs. "Nothing," he says, and forces himself to walk over to the dining room and take his place on the floor again. He won't sleep, he knows that, but to rob Daryl of the opportunity is selfish. Daryl needs to sleep. Shane and Lori and Carl need to sleep. Rick can keep watch. Death never sleeps.

"…Rick?"

Daryl's voice floats to him across the vast expanse of the entryway. Rick lifts his head but Daryl isn't looking over the couch. He can't see him. "Yes?"

"…Me, too."

Rick licks his lips and lays back down, his eyes open and staring at the white ceiling. _Me, too._ He doesn't have to guess what Daryl means. He smiles, running his hand through his hair and letting the back of his hand cushion his head as he rolls over to his side so that he can see the door.

"I don't think you do," he says.

Daryl snorts. "Well, I don't think you're crazy."

Rick lets out a low laugh and closes his eyes. So they're both lying to themselves, then. At least they're on the same page.

 

 

Rick wakes up first. Well, to say he had been asleep would be a lie, so in truth he waits until the sun starts to peek in through the curtains, lighting up the little strip they reveal on the floor, and then he gets up. He goes to the truck and grabs enough food for the whole group and pulls a separate serving for Merle for them to bring up and goes back to the kitchen.

Daryl wakes up next and takes Merle's food up to him while Rick prepares the rest. Preparing, just like saying he was asleep, would be too generous a term. He sets a can of soup, a pudding cup and a fruit cup at a table setting for each of the five of them – one at the head of the table and two on either side. It's a little social experiment. He goes to the bathroom on the bottom floor and waits until everyone else is awake.

There's no running water in the building, he remembers that, and runs his fingers through his grimy hair with a small, annoyed twist of his mouth. When they find somewhere with running water he's sure they'll all want to bathe. Merle, especially, must be a very specific kind of ripe by now.

When he comes back out everyone's awake. Shane has taken the spot at the head of the table, Lori to his left and Carl next to her. Rick smiles and goes back to the truck in the garage until he's sure Daryl has joined them. When he comes back again, Daryl has taken the spot across from Carl, his eyes down and his arms up around his food like he's afraid it's going to be stolen away, which leaves the only spot on Shane's right and next to Daryl.

Rick takes his place happily and opens the pudding cup first, grinning when Carl makes to follow suit.

"Soup, first," Lori scolds, lightly tapping on Carl's hand until he lets go of the pudding. Carl pouts at her but obeys. Without gas or heat the soup is cold, but most of it is broth-heavy and altogether not too unpleasant to eat cold.

"I don't think it matters what order he eats in," he says lightly, digging his finger into the pudding cup to get what's at the bottom. Beside him, Daryl has folded the lid into a spoon-shaped object and is digging out the pieces of fruit, getting juice all over his fingers.

"We shouldn't just abandon everything so quickly," Lori replies, her tone clipped. She's not looking at him. Shane is shaking his head. "After all of this blows over, it'll be good if _some_ people remember basic table manners."

Rick cocks his head to one side. He doesn't miss how her eyes flash to Daryl, and something protective and hot flashes through his heart, but he doesn't comment on her look. Daryl hasn't seen, after all, and seems determined not to acknowledge them at all.

They continue to eat in silence before Shane sits back, clearing his throat. "How long do you think until we're able to move on?" he asks.

Daryl grunts. "Merle's more lucid now," he says around a mouthful of soup, understanding the real question that's being asked. "He'll start gettin' to his mean phase. Couple more days, max. I'd recommend keepin' clear of him."

Rick swallows back his sympathetic sound. He can hear the aggravation and pain in Daryl's voice. He's probably had to listen to all-too-many of Merle's 'mean phases'. He presses his thigh against Daryl's under the table, pleased when the man does nothing to move away from the touch. If anything, he seems to press closer.

"Why should we move on at all?" Lori asks. "Aren't we safe here?"

Rick looks at her. "We gotta go to Atlanta," he says.

"No, we don't," Shane replies, his tone harsh. It's his 'enforcement' voice, the voice that is meant to cower first-grade thugs into giving up their supply routes or their stash zones or the names of their superiors. It's never worked on Rick. Rick looks at him and blinks until the red crown on Shane's head disappears.

 _It's not real. You're insane. Not_ Shane _. It can't be Shane._

"We don't have to go to Atlanta," Shane says again. "There's nothin' for us there."

"Yes, there is," Rick says. "I have to go."

" _Damn it_ , Rick." Shane sits back and bites his tongue, shaking his head. He's braced open and wide, his arms spread out and resting on the arms of his chair, his thumb running along his lower lip, his legs spread out so that he takes up more room than Rick. Posturing. It's grating to watch. He wants to say that Rick is crazy _so bad_ , Rick can see the words branded behind his eyes. But he's holding himself back, their tenuous agreement sitting in the air between them like a fog. " _Why_ do you have to go there? And give me a _real_ reason, not some…. Give me a _real_ reason."

"I don't need to justify myself to you," Rick says, quietly, lined with steel. He can feel the point of a sword digging into the back of his neck. "I shouldn't have to. Why can't you trust me?"

"Do you really want to ask that?" Lori whispers. Her fingers are curled around the edge of the table. There's a ring on her finger, now, glistening and bright. It's not diamond, Rick knows enough about the salaries of cops to know that, but it's pretty and shiny and wrapped like a gold snake around her finger. Keeping up appearances. Always. Rick wonders how long it will be before she loses it or throws it away because she can't fight properly with it, or almost loses her hand when a walker's teeth snags on her finger.

He smiles and lifts his chin. She's drawn her hands back, hiding them under the table again. It feels like her heartbeat is audible, so quick and frail in the silence.

Daryl's thigh moves away from him, like he senses Rick's need to stand, but Rick holds himself back. He doesn't want to physically intimidate them, or risk an escalation by raising his head above Shane's. Every pack has a few fights to establish the order and the rank. This is natural.

"You don't trust me," he says, finally. "That's okay. That doesn't matter. I was _right_. I was _right_ about the end of the world, and I'm right about this. So, I'm going. I never asked you to come back here. Don't get me wrong, I'm happy to see you guys alive, really, but if going to Atlanta means leavin' you behind, then I'm gonna. You can stay here and hole yourselves up and wait until it's overrun or someone meaner comes along. That's fine. I can promise to keep you guys safe, I know what needs to be done. I was _right_ , so you don't gotta trust me, but you're _damn_ sure gonna believe me now."

"Brother, calm down," Shane says, lifting his hand and putting it next to Rick's empty soup can. "I just…I just gotta know why Atlanta. It's a big city and it's gonna be overrun at this point. We don't have enough weapons for that kinda mob."

_The fearful, and unbelieving, and the abominable, and murderers, and whoremongers, and sorcerers, and idolaters, and all liars, shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone._

"I'm going to Atlanta," Rick says, and finally stands and grabs his empty containers to throw away. "With Daryl. As soon as Merle's better, too, if he wants to come with."

"You're going to go with him?" Lori asks, her eyes on Daryl again and her voice heavy with judgement. Rick wants to bare his teeth at her and put his body between the fire in her eyes and Daryl. "You're just going to blindly follow him like that?"

Daryl blinks at her, and then looks up at Rick. Something passes along his face, something defiant and angry, and he smirks and looks back to her.

"Damn fuckin' right."

Oh, Rick could kiss him. Lori’s face goes white, although whether it’s because of the swear – to which Carl stifles a laugh behind his hand – or the admission itself, Rick can’t be sure. She clenches her jaw until the corner of it bulges and glares between the two of them.

"You’re insane," she hisses. "You’ve both completely lost your minds."

"Better that than losing our heads," Rick replies, grinning widely when she continues to glare. "I’m not forcing you to decide now. We don’t have to decide now. We don’t have to decide at all. Daryl and I are going to Atlanta."

He can see them weakening, cracking under his decision. Because humans aren’t meant to be solitary, aren’t meant to break away from each other. And even though Shane is now the Alpha of the family, Rick has always been the one at the center. Even when imprisoned, they came to him because he is the kind of man who draws people and binds them together with iron and saltwater.

Lori presses her lips together and casts her eyes down, visibly deflating when it looks like Rick will not budge, and Shane sighs, sensing the exchange of power. He’s not the leader of Daryl, or Rick – never has been. And if Rick goes forward, so will they. They turned back so that they could be with him, and just as Lori claims she will not leave him behind, she will also not allow any of them to be left either. Such is the way of things.

Daryl stands, gathering his empty containers together along with Rick’s, and Carl’s since he notices the boy is done. He leaves Shane’s and Lori’s. _Pick your people_. "We’ll give it another two days," he says to Rick. "Merle should be lucid enough by then. Then we can leave."

 

 

Rick sits outside on the porch for most of the day. There isn't much else to do – these houses were all empty which means there isn't much to scavenge in terms of food or blankets, there's no utensils or things they can use to eat out of, and there aren't any televisions or radios where they can tune in and listen to the news. Lori's phone doesn't get great internet and Rick senses that soon enough the phones will give out anyway. Networks and data centers require constant monitoring and it won't be long before the panic or the death sweeps through them all and wipes all the employees out.

He wonders, idly, how long it will be before the generators keeping New York afloat will fail, until the city falls into the marshes.

He tilts his head and catches the shape of Carl coming through the front door in his periphery. He smiles and moves over on the porch step so that the boy has a place to sit, and Carl does with a small huff. His hat is pushed back on his head and he's squinting off into the bright glare of the road. He's holding a hunting knife in his hand that Rick recognizes from Shane's fishing gear. Shane doesn't fish often – Rick remembers his father used to a lot, though. Maybe he intends to reclaim the skill. It's a good skill to have.

"Shane won't let me have a gun," Carl says, and Rick laughs.

"You shouldn't have a gun," he says. "At least not one of ours. They're too heavy for you."

Carl blinks at him, as though betrayed by his father's answer. "I need to know how to shoot," he protests. "In case one'a them things comes along. I don't know how."

Rick nods. "Well, that at least is true," he says, "but it'll have to wait until we're somewhere safer. They're attracted by the noise, you know." He taps his finger against Carl's knife, trailing along the knotted leather that sheaths the tip. "S'better, if it's just one or two, to stab them in the head instead. Assumin' you can reach."

Carl shoves his shoulder against Rick's playfully, grinning when Rick laughs. "I'm tall enough," he says, his voice high and young and offended, and Rick laughs again and slings an arm around Carl's shoulders, pulling him close.

They continue to stare out into the road in silence. The road is as though ghosts haunt it, only the wind and the sun as their companions. Nothing moves, nothing makes a sound. There aren't even birds.

"I'm scared, dad," Carl says after another moment, his voice just as quiet. Rick loosens his arm just enough that Carl can straighten up. The boy's jaw is clenched and he doesn't look at his father, but down at his knife. His knuckles are white against the handle. "It all happened so fast, and mom and Shane wouldn't tell me what was goin' on until we were on our way to Atlanta. I…" Carl swallows hard, his throat clicking. "Shane hit a person, and there was this black goo all over the car, and I saw it slide past my window and onto the ground. I knew it wasn't a person anymore, but one'a them things, and I saw it and it was still _moving_."

"Headshot's the only way to kill 'em," Rick says, "or, you know, stabbing 'em in the brain. That'll work, too."

"What are they?"

Rick shakes his head. "They're…the undead. The walking dead, I guess. I've been callin' them walkers. I feel like there should be a better name for them, but…" He shrugs.

"So everyone's just going to die? And turn?" Carl asks. He doesn't sound scared anymore, even though Rick can see his hand shaking. He sounds resigned, like an old man facing the end of his days. Rick hates that – Carl is only ten, for God's sake – but this is the world they live in now. They don't have the luxury of youth or innocence.

Still, he hesitates on his answer. He doesn't know how much Carl knows, or how much he was told, about Rick's delusions and the reason he ended up in the facility in the first place. Of course, it was hard to hide the fact that someone's father murdered three men in cold blood, but does Carl know the why? The how? The where? Did he spend hours in the library or on the internet after Rick's conviction, searching for the details of the case? Did he find Shane one evening when he was drunk and his tongue was looser than usual and ply him for details?

He licks his lips and stares straight ahead, his eyes on the house opposite them. "Carl…" he starts, stops, looks down and scratches at the wristband on his arm. "How much has your mom told you about why I was locked away?"

Carl looks at him, then back down. "She said you…got really stressed out," he says, and Rick wants to roll his eyes but he stops himself and makes sure his face remains blank, "and that you just needed a lot of time to be alone, by yourself. That after your coma you came out different and needed time to cope."

Rick nods. Truthfully that's a lot kinder than Rick had expected of her, considering how afraid she is of him. She must sense, _somewhere_ in her psyche, that he means no harm to her and isn't dangerous to the family.

"I suppose that's true," he says. He scratches at the wristband again and sighs. "I…wasn't well when I woke up. When I was in my coma I had a lot of very dark, scary dreams, and when I woke up I guess I had a hard time telling that I was awake, you know?"

Carl nods. "I've dreamed I've woken up and then woken up again. I get it."

"Right." Rick blows out a breath and runs his hands through his hair, hooking them at the back of his neck. "Well, I actually dreamed about this. The whole walking dead _thing_. And…and I also dreamed that there was a way to stop it. And so, I tried to stop it, but I was wrong. So, I went away for a while."

Carl remains quiet, twisting the knife around in his hands. "How do you think it should be stopped?"

Rick closes his eyes. "I don't know if you're ready for that part," he says, and Carl looks at him with an irritated, offended eye. He's young, but thinks himself a man. Rick remembers Shane in those days, and himself. At least Carl comes by his inheritance honestly.

"I'll tell you, one day," Rick promises, finally breaking his eyes away from the other house and turning to look at his son. "I promise I will. When the time comes, when it feels right to do it. I don't want you to worry, though."

"Mom says you're crazy," Carl says. "I remember the sign on the place you were staying. _Criminally Insane_." Rick winces, scratching the back of his neck. "Are you insane, Dad? Are you a criminal?"

"I suppose, technically, yes to both," Rick replies. He doesn't want to lie to his son, after all, and approaches it with the same air as he had introduced himself to Merle – the more people know of the situation beforehand, the less of a surprise and a problem it will be when and if their group merges with another, or takes on people to grow larger. People will need to be able to trust him, and follow him, if they want to be kept safe, and that is more easily done when he already has a pack. It's much safer to follow a pack than a lone wolf.

"Really?" Carl asks, young and afraid.

"Yes," Rick says, nodding. "Because I believed that these dreams were real, and because I told people about them, they called me insane. But, Carl, you have to remember – especially in the world as it is now. Just because they call someone crazy, and just because someone might be a criminal, it doesn't mean they're dangerous. You don't need to be either thing to be dangerous. There are going to be people who mean us harm, or who can become our friends, and they might have done bad things or never harmed a fly. You're going to have to start trustin' your gut about what people are, now."

Carl nods, and bites his lower lip until the edge turns white, before letting it go. "Okay."

Rick doesn't ask what Carl's gut is telling him about Rick, or Shane. He doesn't deserve the knowledge and doesn't want to have his suspicions confirmed. Carl loves Shane. To have him doubt that love would be crueler than all the other things they are about to suffer.

"Carl!"

Lori's voice shatters the silence, slicing through like an ice-cold blade, and she appears in the doorway and deflates like she'd spent all day running around after the child. Her voice is shaky with relief when she says; "Get inside, please. Shane is making a net and says he could use your help."

"Okay!" Carl replies, apparently unable to notice the dark look Lori is sending Rick's way, and he goes inside and Lori pulls the door shut behind them.

"What were you guys talking about?" she asks, for all the world so nonchalant, but she's never been a particularly good actor. That was, actually, one of the things Rick fell in love with. She is as honest as she is able to be, but she cannot lie worth a damn either. She can't fake anything.

She comes forward and remains with enough distance between them that Rick wouldn't be able to reach out and grab her. Rick remains sitting, in the relatively submissive posture, and smiles at her.

"What are you afraid I'll say?"

Lori huffs an irritated breath. "Whatever you please, I imagine," she replies. "I don't want you alone with him."

"Do you want me alone with anyone?"

"I'm sure Daryl doesn't mind you." There's something in her voice, almost accusing if she had any right to accuse him of anything anymore. "But that's not the point. You were convicted, Rick, and you don't even bother denying that you're a murderer. I don't want that around him."

"It's around him whether you want it or not," Rick says. "You don't have the luxury or power to deny him reality."

"This isn't…" She lifts her hand to her forehead, placing it flat and pushing her bangs out of her eyes. They're bright with tears, unshed for now, and she turns away. "God _damn_ it, Rick. I had hoped after so long in there you might be _better_ now. But you're just as -."

"Crazy?" Rick says. "Delusional? You're going to look at the world as it is now, you're going to see the blood on the streets and hear the gunshots and think _I'm_ the one being delusional?"

"Damn it, Rick, you said _Death_ was speaking to you!" Lori shrieks, turning back around, her hair a whirl until it settles on her shoulders again. The tears have started to fall. "You might not remember it but I do! When you would…hurt yourself, and write on the walls. I had to paint over the bedroom. Shane couldn't get it out no matter how hard he scrubbed, I had to repaint it. And the…the _nightmares_. The _muttering_." She looks down at him, a weeping Angel, finally gone still. "You were losing your mind and I was losing my husband, and Carl kept asking me "Why's Dad doing that?", "What's wrong with Dad?". And I didn't know what to tell him. And you'd get this _look_ in your eyes, like you didn't even see us anymore, like we weren't real, and you'd talk to the open air. Don't you _get it_?"

Rick pushes himself to his feet, then, moved by her grief. Despite the fact that his passion for her has cooled to gentle affection, and that she has clearly moved to greener pastures as well, he still loves her, and feels something in him that makes him human and makes him a man _tug_ at the sight of her tears. He reaches for her and holds her hands and brings them up to his chest, holding them between the two of them.

Her shoulders are shaking and he wants to hug her, but now is not the time.

"What happens when you do that again?" Lori demands. "What happens if we're in Atlanta and there's a mob of them coming for us and you don't even _see_ us?"

Rick licks his lips, and pulls Lori's knuckles up to kiss them, lightly, before he lets her arms fall. "I can't say anything that will reassure you," he says, "because all I have to offer is what scared you, before."

"What do you mean?"

"Death still comes to me, Lori. I haven't told Carl, I haven't even told Daryl, not that it still happens, anyway. But he can promise us safety while I…do what I need to do."

"Oh, my God." She closes her eyes and shakes her head. Then, she laughs. "Of course. Of course."

"I will keep you safe," Rick says. "I will protect you. Daryl will, too, if you let him."

She lifts her hands to dab under her eyes, fingertips pressing at the dark circles there. "Right. The kid with the crossbow."

"He got me out. I owe him my life."

Something strange passes across Lori's face, guilty and curious and a little uncomfortable. "Rick…Now, I don't mean anything by it, but I want to ask…" Rick cocks his head to one side. "You and he aren't…are you?"

Rick frowns at her, before he takes a small step back and lifts his chin. "Would it matter if we were?" he asks, uncaring that they aren't. But maybe they are – he thinks back on the times when he saw that jealous love in Daryl's eyes, and his own possessive desire to be close to him. And he thinks of what Death had told him, and what Daryl had himself confessed – what they both had confessed – in the darkness last night. So maybe they aren't, maybe they never will. Maybe they will, though, and Rick won't hold back or hide behind the norms of society. Society is literally eating itself alive.

Lori blinks at him, her eyes wide. "I just…didn't realize you were gay," she says, as though their years together had just been a trick, or a fluke. Rick blinks at her. "I mean…I guess it's understandable. Being around someone that much without many other options…"

"Stop." Rick holds up a hand, his fingers curling, and shakes his head. "I'm not having this conversation with you."

"I think it's a conversation we should have, Rick," Lori protests. "I mean, what am I supposed to say to Carl?"

"Say _what_? What, exactly, do you think I'm doing?"

She doesn't get a chance to answer, because Daryl comes through the front door abruptly, his crossbow slung across his back. Rick feels himself smiling in abrupt reaction, all the tension and anger melting away from him when he sees the man. He sees Daryl's lips twitch upwards before he turns his face so his hair hides it.

"Daryl," he greets warmly. "Everything alright?"

Daryl nods. He has one arm bent, thumb tucked under the strap of his crossbow so that he can remove it quickly. "Was gonna go scout out, see what I can see. I figure there might be some stuff in a neighborhood nearby, or somethin'."

Rick nods. "Would you like some company?"

Daryl grunts, lifting his free hand to bite at his cuticles. "Figure if it's just me, I can slip in and out if things get bad."

Rick frowns. He knows enough about Daryl to know when a question is being avoided. Lori steps back towards the door. "No one should be on their own," she says kindly, resting a hand on Daryl's arm and Daryl turns his head to look at her out of the corner of his eye. "Rick should go with you. I think we'll be able to hold down the fort long enough."

She goes into the house without another word, leaving Rick and Daryl behind. Rick shifts his weight and scratches the back of his neck. "I don't need to go with you if you want to be alone," he says, but he hopes that Daryl can hear how desperately he _wants_ to go. The idea of Daryl being separated from him isn't a pleasant one, and he knows the man can handle himself, but that doesn't mean Rick's brain will allow him to rest if he knows Daryl is gone, somewhere unknown, and he's unable to help him. He can't _protect_ Daryl if he's not around.

Daryl sighs through his nose. "Nah, come on," he says, stepping down onto the little pathway that leads to the street. "Got somethin' I wanna teach ya, anyway."

"Oh?" Rick follows him, his hand resting lightly on his pistol as he falls into step behind Daryl and they head towards the opening of the little cul-de-sac.

"Yeah," Daryl licks his lips and looks to the left, and then to the right of them. Down the street there is a similar red-brick opening sporting the name of the neighborhood, likely leading to similarly empty houses. The other way, to the left, the road stretches on for several miles towards the highway. There will probably be more inhabited places that way. They decide on it silently but as one, and turn left down that way.

They walk in companionable silence for a while, Daryl on Rick's right, their steps silent on the road. "When Merle and I were younger, we would go out huntin' together, or we'd just go out in the woods when we wanted to be away from home. Came up with this system so that we could communicate if we decided to separate."

"How?" Rick asks.

"We'd whistle," Daryl says. "How loud can you whistle?"

"Pretty loud," Rick replies with a smile. "I'd have to get Shane's attention or somethin'. Whistlin's a good way to get people to shut up and listen to you."

"Right." Daryl nods, his eyes downcast. "Well, so there are a couple whistles we have that always mean the same thing." He lifts his head and looks behind them, making sure they're alone for the most part. He's sure any walkers that might be nearby can be handled. "There's 'All clear'," he says, and then he whistles softly – one long, low note, then a sharp higher one to follow. Rick mimics him. "Good. Then there's 'Come quickly, danger'." He lets out three sharp, high-pitched sounds in quick succession, and Rick nods. Daryl looks at him, his cheeks turning a little red, and then he shrugs. "Those, at least, will be good to know."

"What about directions? If we get separated and I need to find you?"

Daryl nods. "North." One whistle, low and short. "East." Low and long. "South." High and short. "West." High and long. "Where are you?" Start high, end low, as long as it seems he can make it. Rick swallows and nods.

"Probably should write this down," he says.

Daryl snorts. "You'll pick it up easy enough, I imagine," he replies.

Rick smiles. "You have a lot of faith in my ability."

"I know you're smart, Rick, you don't need me to tell you that," Daryl replies with a smile. It's one of his rare, happy smiles, and Rick wants to reach out and touch him until Daryl purrs. Then, the smile fades, and Daryl clears his throat and looks ahead of them again. "You think Shane and Lori will come with us?"

 _Us_. Such a sweet word when he says it. Rick swallows and looks ahead as well, his eyes on the edges of the road and keeping watch for anything that might lurch out of the trees at them. "I think so," he says. "You don't want them to."

Daryl grunts, but doesn't say anything.

"…I don't want them to, either," Rick admits, quietly, almost under his breath. He can feel Daryl's surprised look on the side of his face. He stops, putting his hands on his hips, and breathes out, looking at the road. Daryl stops in front of him and turns to face him and Rick raises his eyes again. "I don't…I don't think Lori will ever be comfortable around me again, and Shane and I are gonna keep fighting, and Carl's so scared, and I think I scare him, too."

"He'll come around," Daryl says, but it's weak.

Rick runs a hand across his face. "Daryl, I…" He chokes on his exhale, a knot in his stomach rising up and stopping his breath for a brief moment. "I think Shane might be War."

"War." Daryl's eyes are wide. "Like…like one'a the horsemen? One of the ones you gotta kill?"

"It can't be, right?" Rick says, shaking his head. "I want… _God_ , I wish I was just crazy. But he came…in a red car, and when I saw him again Death was there, and I keep seeing – seeing this _crown_ on his head, and I can't stop feeling like…" He lets go of one hip, fingers curling, and taps his knuckles against his thigh. "I feel like he came back on purpose. Like he's testing me. Like he _knows_ , but he can't know, because I'm crazy, right?" He looks back up at Daryl, helpless and weak.

"What do you want me to say?" Daryl asks, his voice quiet and meek.

"Tell me I'm crazy."

"I already said I don't think you are."

"Well, then tell me I'm wrong."

"Haven't been so far."

"Damn it, Daryl!"

"Well?" Daryl throws his hands out to either side. "What do you want me to say? You haven't been wrong so far, and if you're right, that means you ain't crazy, doesn’t it?"

"I see things that aren't there," Rick says. "I see things. And I hear voices. Lori was right."

Daryl blinks at him, frowning. "The fuck your wife gotta do with this?"

"It's what we were talking about, before you came out." _Among other things_. "She's…she's worried I'm still crazy. That I didn't get better. Did I get better?" He steps back, looking behind them, and then turns his gaze to Daryl again. "You watched me. You were my friend in there. Did I get better?"

"Until you gave your wall a paint job, I'd'a said yes," Daryl replies. "But it doesn't matter anymore."

"Does it matter what anyone says anymore?" Rick whispers. "Does it matter what I say? Will anyone believe me? Will it matter?"

"Of course it matters!" Daryl takes a step forward, closing the distance between them like he's going to knock the sense into Rick if it doesn't come of its own accord. "You're…the one who saw it coming, Rick. You're the one Death came to – it don't matter if you're insane 'cause you're the only one who sees it. I don't have to see him, I don't _want_ to see him. Haven't seen them Northern Lights either, but I know they exist. And I believe you when you say we need to go to Atlanta. That's enough for me." He tilts his head to one side and ducks so that Rick has to meet his eyes. They're gorgeously dark, blue as the depths of the ocean. Rick feels like he's drowning.

"And is my word enough?" he asks. "When I think Shane is War? I might have to kill him. My _best_ – my oldest friend." At that he breaks away from Daryl's gaze. His own vision is getting blurry and he takes in a shuddering breath.

"You have to _know_ ," Daryl says. "You said…you said you'd know if you saw. Maybe it's just stress right now. Maybe he's just the first guy you saw. I mean, you never saw this on him before, right?"

Rick blinks. Yes, Daryl is right about that. Before the dead started walking Rick would have never suspected Shane of a thing. He nods. "Yes," he says. "And…and the other horsemen will be compelled to kill me. They'll have no choice. Shane hasn't…tried anything."

"There you go!" Daryl's hand rests lightly on Rick's shoulder, turning him back so that they're facing each other. "He hasn't tried anything – and if he does, then you'll know, and it'll be a moot point. Self-defense, right?"

Rick blows out a breath and lifts his face to the sky, squinting. There isn't a cloud in sight. It's a gorgeous day for the end of the world. "Yeah," he says. "I guess so."

"So don't worry about it." Daryl's hand doesn't move from his shoulder and the other man seems in no hurry to move on. His touch is warm through Rick's t-shirt, the sound of his breathing comforting. Rick can catch hints of his scent as the air stirs up around them, like every part of nature is pushing Daryl closer to him. He wants to turn and wrap himself in the other man, wants to sheathe his soul inside of Daryl's so that he can always feel him, and draw upon him, and know what he's thinking. Of course, humans aren't capable of that kind of connection, but in the quiet and the stillness Rick thinks he might be able to get close.

Rick sighs, and rubs a hand through his hair. "Did you really think we'd find anything out here?" he asks. Daryl straightens and pulls his hand away and Rick feels it like the loss of the sun. He even reaches out to try and catch Daryl's arm before he thinks better of it and lets it hang again.

Daryl huffs a laugh and shakes his head. "Just wanted to get out of that house. Too nice for my kind," he says, scuffing one foot against the asphalt. "'Sides, it was getting a little much. Bein' around them."

"I know you never liked them," Rick says gently. "It's okay."

"It's not that," Daryl says, shaking his head. "It's…I'm sure they're good people, and I know you love 'em. I just think…"

"What?"

"They should have treated you better," Daryl admits. "I mean, I would see 'em sometimes, cuddled up together while they were waitin' to be seated, and then they'd go visit you and they'd act so _proper_ and shit around you 'cause they're so fuckin' scared of you, of how you'd react. Lori _cheated on you_ and didn't even tell you for _weeks_ , maybe even longer. And now they're back here when you asked them not to be, and they're comin' here actin' like they can tell you what to do."

"On your turf?" Rick asks, grinning lopsidedly. Daryl sends him a look that tells Rick he's closer to the truth than he'd care to admit. "I love how protective you are of me." Daryl makes an ugly, dismissive sound. "No, honestly, Daryl. I love that. I _adore_ that about you: I know that you'll take care of everyone. If the worst should happen."

"Don't say shit like that," Daryl growls, shifting his weight. His shoulders are coming up, his head ducking down like he's trying to hide his face and protect his neck. "Don't talk like that."

Rick cocks his head to one side, an idea suddenly springing to him. "Hey, does this signal exist?" he asks, and then whistles softly. One short, low note, arcing up into a high one, then a separate low one again. Daryl frowns, but shakes his head. "Then that'll be ours. Just ours."

"What will it mean?" Daryl asks.

"Does it have to mean anything?" Rick asks, smiling. "Don't you just want… _one_ thing, that's just ours? I like the idea of it. We can teach others the necessary ones, but that one – can just be ours." He can see Daryl fighting a smile – something fond and accommodating like one would smile at a child's art project. "What do you think?"

"I think you're a Goddamn fool," Daryl says, letting out a small laugh. "But alright. I like it."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so THIS is definitely my favorite chapter. Like out of all of them. And probably for the foreseeable future.

" _Rick. Lead us to water, Rick_."

They're strung up high, hanging from a bridge. Swaying to, fro, two out of the four in a gentle rotation. One of them didn't get his headshot and shrieks and growls at them, reaching desperately for the nourishment their bodies will provide it.

"How do they breathe?" he asks.

 _They don't_.

"Why do they eat?"

 _Hunger_.

"Why am I not hungry? Am I not alive?"

 _Hunger is different for the dead_.

He can't turn his head and see who is talking to him, but there is only one who talks without speaking, who can be heard without sound.

"I'm thirsty," he says after a moment.

The voice laughs. _I know you are_.

"Why?"

He can finally turn his head, and gazes to the side of him. The figure is cloaked in shadow, standing farther away than Rick had assumed he was, since his voice is so loud. Of course, it's expected to be, in his head.

"Rick! There's water this way!"

It's Daryl's voice, but Rick can't move, can't see the man. The rope suspending the one moving walker is starting to snap. Rick looks ahead of him again and sees a man, swathed in red like Death is, but not in a cloak. His head is exposed, and the sun flashes sharply off of the gold in his crown. Around his feet, Rick can see shadows, dog-like but not dogs, their eyes glowing red. The man holds a sword in his hand, dripping with blood. Or maybe it's wine. Rick licks his lips.

He wishes he could see the man's face.

" _Rick_!"

"Don't you see him?" Rick whispers. He turns back to look at Death. He can hear War's dogs starting to bark and growl. They sound curiously like the walkers. Do animals turn? Will they have to fear the dogs, the cats, the animals breaking out from the zoo? The bears and the gorillas?

"Rick, come on! _Please_ , come on!"

Daryl, he has to find Daryl. But he can't see anything except War and Death and the walkers above them. One of the ropes holding the walkers snaps and they plummet to the ground with a heavy-sounding splat. Rick winces and shrinks back when War's dogs leap forward and feast on the bodies, snarling and ripping the flesh apart as easily as a peel from a banana. The smell is nauseating.

"Rick!"

"Where are you?" Rick whispers, looking around. He can't see anyone – just Death, and War, and the dogs and the walkers. They're almost gone already. "Daryl!" Where is Lori, and Shane, and Carl? Where is _Daryl_?"

" _Rick_!"

His shouting has drawn the attention of the dogs and more walkers. They're coming in on him from all sides. His family must be somewhere close. He runs in the opposite direction to War, but there's no scenery to guide him home. There are no trees, there is no road, no houses or cars. " _Daryl!_ "

 _What happens when you can't_ see _us?_

A walker lunges for him and sends him slamming back onto the ground. Rick struggles, pushing at the thing's face to keep its gnawing mouth away from him. He can hear Daryl calling his name again, louder this time and more insistent.

"God damn it -."

There's no weapon near him. He doesn't have his gun, or his knife, or even the damn letter opener. He shoves at the walker until it falls off of him but it moves quickly, too quickly for what it is, and leaps at him again and Rick is once again pinned to the ground.

" _Rick_!"

"Daryl!"

A sharp pain sinks into the side of his neck. It feels like someone is grabbing him, like the dead are trying to rip his flesh from his bones, and he shrieks and tries to turn around and the pain sharpens, grows a point, sinks _in_ -.

There's asphalt under his nails. He abruptly feels heat on his face, and a chill right down to his bones. He's shaking and shivering. He can taste blood in his mouth. He coughs, pushing himself to his hands and knees, and suddenly gags. Blood and spit drip from his parted lips, his back heaving as he tries to suck in air around the knotted ball of rope and wire sitting in his throat.

The road is warm on his hands and knees, rough. His head is pounding but it doesn't feel like someone actually tried to rip his hair out or peel his skin back. He touches his face and winces. It feels tender, like someone hit him.

"Sorry, had to." It's Daryl's voice. Rick is abruptly aware of the man's presence next to him. He turns his head and sees Daryl, his shoulders bare, his knuckles red. He's shaking his wrist and Rick licks his lips, spitting out another wad of bloody saliva onto the ground beneath his hands, before he sighs and sits back on his heels. It feels like Daryl hit him twice, once on his jaw and then once on the side of his face, higher along the cheekbone. It'll probably bruise nicely.

Rick looks around him. They're in the street, a few houses down from the one where Carl, Lori, Shane and Merle are likely still asleep. He swallows and works his jaw to test that it's not broken or cracked. It aches like a bitch – Daryl sure has a mean swing on him – but he's sure it's not broken.

"What happened?" he asks.

"Woke up, you weren't there," Daryl replies. "Waited for a second, then I heard you outside, like you were talkin' to someone. Tried to get your attention, but you must'a been sleepwalking or something."

"Or something," Rick replies, rubbing at his jaw again. "I don't…know what that was. I could hear you calling for me, but I couldn't see you, and then – did you tackle me?"

"Had to," Daryl says. "You were freaking out."

Rick nods. "I dreamt you were a walker," he says. "Well, that a walker was after me, not that _you_ were…"

"I get it," Daryl murmurs. He shifts his weight to match Rick's pose, resting on his knees and his heels tucked under him, his hands braced against his thighs. He has no weapon on him, nothing at all to defend himself with if Rick had tried to pull a weapon. He reaches up and runs a hand through his hair, pushing it to one side. Rick is starting to shiver – there's sweat under his arms and down the back of his neck and it's starting to warm up and dry, sticking and tacky and unpleasant.

"I'm sorry I woke you," Rick says quietly. The sun is just starting to break past the tops of the houses, the road uncharacteristically warm on Rick's knees. Maybe that's just being around Daryl. "I'm sorry I…" He sighs, lowering his head and putting his face in his hands, then running them through his hair and curling his fingers around the back of his neck. "God, Daryl, I'm so sorry."

"You don't have to apologize to me," Daryl says, and Rick is at once supremely glad that Daryl hadn't said 'It's okay' or 'You don't have anything to be sorry for' or some other weak, meaningless platitude. Because Rick has so much to be sorry for, to regret. And Daryl isn't saying Rick is blameless, or without fault and without failing. But that he is, and that it doesn't matter. At least where Daryl is concerned.

After another moment of silence Daryl shifts his weight and lets out an uncomfortable-sounding cough. "Do you…wanna talk about it?" he asks. Rick shakes his head and Daryl lets out a small breath of relief. "C'mon then, let's get inside 'fore Lori and Shane wake up and wonder what we're up to."

"I'm sure they have ideas already," Rick says, somewhat darkly as they both stand and start the slow walk back to the house, remembering the judgement in Lori's eyes and the angry feeling he'd gotten when she had looked at him like he was nothing more than page in her memory book.

Daryl blinks at him. "S'that supposed to mean?"

Rick swallows, and licks his lips. He can still taste the blood in his mouth, and he turns his head and tries to spit out what's gathered since he last did it. It coats one side of his mouth, between his teeth like a stubborn piece of popcorn, and he can feel the tender inside of his lip where it almost split.

He sighs. He knows Daryl already gets enough of a hard time, if his reaction to Merle's teasing had been anything to go by. Besides, they do live in Georgia, and even if there were places like that (Rick doesn't really know, it's not like he's ever gone to look), he doubts they were overly welcoming to people with Daryl's personality and hours. In his head, when Rick conjures up the stereotypical image of a gay man, Daryl is not the first thing that comes to mind.

But Daryl _is_ attractive, Rick knows enough about what he likes to know that. His shoulders are broad and strong, his arms thick, his eyes so Goddamn beautiful that Rick can and has repeatedly thought about them for hours at a time, and stared into them for far longer than is necessary. His voice is smooth and low, his features sharp. Rick doesn't think he'd have much trouble finding someone to the spend the night with if he put his mind to it – like a hunter, he'd track and asses and then go in for his kill.

"Lori asked me if we were together," he blurts out, figuring it would be safer to rip off the band-aid than dance around the subject and try to avoid it. Daryl doesn't feel like much of a dancer, and he doesn't waste time fucking around with mincing words. _Small talk_ , it's a good thing they both hated it.

Daryl snorts and rolls his eyes. "Oh yeah?" he asks, but he says it guardedly, like he doesn't want to laugh too hard at it in case Rick is being serious, but he doesn't want to make himself too vulnerable to the idea should Rick be tricking him.

"…Does that bother you?" Rick asks.

Daryl shrugs one shoulder, noncommittal and avoiding eye contact. "Kinda funny," he says in that guarded tone. "I mean, I know my brother says shit like he does 'cause he's known for, like, _years_ about…about me. And he kinda assumes any guy I'm hanging around with I'm fuckin'."

"And…was that the case?" Rick asks, unable to help himself. He can't stop it – the image of other men, with their hands on Daryl, touching his waist or pulling his hair or pressing their mouths against his neck, his lips, over his heart. In some dark, shrouded room, moving together with skin and teeth bared, selfish and base.

Daryl smirks at him and halts. They're at what would have become the next-door neighbor's house, still a safe talking distance away. "Jealous of my sex life, Grimes?" he teases.

"I might be," Rick replies, openly and without shame. Daryl blinks at him. "Just like you're jealous of Lori."

"Yeah, well, I got more reason," Daryl says, his voice hardening from the teasing tone it had just been. "She's here, with your kid, you were _married_ to her for years."

"She's fucking my friend," Rick replies easily. "She doesn't get to claim me anymore, and I have no interest in winning her back. She doesn't wear my ring, she doesn't have my last name anymore, and she thinks I'm fucking my caretaker. I couldn't care less what she does."

"You still love her, though," Daryl says. "You _have_ to still love her."

"Yeah, well…" Daryl's staring at him – willing him to keep talking, maybe, or wishing he would just shut up. It's hard to tell when Daryl's eyes are shaded by his hair, so that Rick can't see what exact color of blue they are. He takes a step forward and Daryl shifts his weight, like he's going to try and bolt, but he doesn't otherwise move.

Daryl's fingers curl by his sides, his arm twitching like he wants to reach out. That must be what he's trying to do, because there's no weapon on him to reach for otherwise.

"That night," Rick says, a quiet whisper like he's in a church. The air between them feels reverent, slowed down to the speed of moving pieces of Earth. "That night, you said 'Me, too'. What did you mean?"

"Does it matter?" Daryl breathes. "You didn't believe me. Said so yourself."

"You can't pick and choose what you pay attention to," Rick says, unable to stop himself smiling.

"Ain't that what the faithful do anyway?"

"Daryl." Rick reaches out, finally, and rests his hand gently on the back of Daryl's neck. He doesn't pull him in, yet, but he can feel the muscles in Daryl's neck stiffening, like he's forcing himself not to lean in, not to rest their foreheads together and breathe _out_. "Please don't hide from me."

"I don't know what you expect me to say," Daryl replies.

"You could say that I'm insane, or that I'm a murderer, or that I'm…whatever else you can think of, as a reason not to believe me. But don't drag up something that doesn't matter anymore. Lori and I…are done, as far as I'm concerned. She's not allowed to want me, she's not allowed to judge you."

"What'll you do if she does?"

Rick shrugs one shoulder. Daryl's hand comes up and wraps around Rick's wrist where it rests against his neck. "What I have to."

"Rick…"

"Yes?" Rick tilts his head to one side. They're both standing so close. Daryl's eyes skate around like a hunting cat, on Rick's mouth, his eyes, down to the street beneath them, to the holster on Rick's hip, to his own hand, back up.

"…You know what I meant, when I said it," Daryl finally says, his eyes honest and the same blue as the sky when it darkens to black after the sun retreats. His pupils are wide despite the brightening day, and he reaches out with his free hand, his right, the knuckles still red from punching Rick, and places it on Rick's chest. His fingers curl into Rick's loose shirt. "You gotta know."

Rick sighs, relief washing through him as he exhales. He hadn't even realized he'd been holding his breath. Daryl seems to deflate as well and they rest their foreheads together, and Daryl's hands feels so warm against Rick's arm and his chest. Rick moves forward with his other hand, resting his fingers lightly under Daryl's bicep, holding him steady. As soon as he touches Daryl it's like his trembling calms and he goes still with relief and surrender.

Rick remembers saying there is so much a man can say without using the words. He feels Daryl's love, his pain, his longing for touch through where their bodies are connected. He feels it like something physical, his own soul desperate for the connection reaching back out through his skin. Touch-starved, broken things, the both of them. He closes his eyes and lets out another breath.

When he and Lori had first been dating, he had been the one to say 'I love you' first. He'd freaked out about it, too, because she hadn't said it back. Just 'Me, too'. He hadn’t imagined hearing Daryl say it would bring up such different feelings. When Daryl says it, it isn't like a dismissive, meaningless thing meant to calm a child or satisfy a suitor or pacify a racist uncle. It is _involvement_ , diving deep into the emotion, it's _Me, too. I'm here. What you're feeling, I am feeling. What you are, I also am._

Daryl breaks the silence after another moment, his fingers curling against Rick's chest. He feels like he wants to withdraw but Rick doesn't loosen his hold on the other man. This is to be expected, when things are raw and vulnerable – the need to retreat and the need to hide is natural and necessary. Daryl licks his lips.

"Rick, let me go," he whispers. Rick's hold loosens and he takes a step back, but Rick can see the desperate need to be close again, written across his face before he tries to school it. "I don't want to…while she's here."

Rick blinks, and nods. The air rushes in between them, hot and stagnant now like they're standing in a swamp. He misses Daryl's touch immediately, like a balm on bruised skin. His face hurts.

"Don't make me sleep away from you," he says, and Daryl looks at him like that's the last thing he expected Rick to say. He shifts his weight and huffs a soft, embarrassed laugh, his cheeks turning pink as he looks at the ground and scratches the back of his neck.

"I won't," he replies, equally softly, equally earnest. It feels like he's wrapping Rick up in his voice, like his soul is petting across Rick's face and hands like a charming animal, sleek and soft against his skin. "I just…don't want to do anything while she's here. Where she can just walk in on us or something. Not until we're…"

 _Safe. Separated. Far away from them. Not until it's done_. "I understand," Rick says, and he does. Daryl's love is thorny and jealous and insecure, a rose stem without the flower, waiting to blossom under Rick's care. Rick smiles, just a little, and whistles out their little tune – low, high, low. Daryl looks at him and smirks, his cheeks getting a little redder.

"Yeah, me too," he says, and steps past Rick, brushing a hand across his chest, and Rick's smile widens as he realizes that their whistle has become, suddenly and yet in a totally expected way, their way of saying _I love you_.

 

 

"What do you think Atlanta's like, by now?"

Rick looks up from the wide array of firearms that he, Daryl and Shane had managed to collect. All in all, they have a good stock – several pistols with extra magazines, a couple of the rifles that come standard-issue in police vehicles. Likely pilfered from the car Rick stole and then the one he and Shane used to ride around in. Rick wonders, idly, who Shane's new partner is. Or was. If he liked the man. If he killed the man.

"Lotta people probably hiding, or turned," Rick replies with a shrug. "By the time Merle's ready to move, it could be totally overrun or abandoned. Mass evacuations, hysteria, panic. A lot of death and violence."

"Fantastic." Shane rubs a hand over his face, then traps his tongue between his teeth and fixes a look on Rick. "And you're still set on goin' there, huh?"

Rick nods, tensed up for another fight, but Shane just sighs and lets it slide. "Well, I think between you, me and Daryl we'll be alright. Not sure how good that brother of his is with a gun but I'm not sure I want to give him one either, if he's still strung out. Lori and Carl…can have the knives and shit, I guess. Hopefully we'll be able to clear it for them so nothin' gets too close."

Rick nods. He and Shane hadn't ever done anything _really_ big, in terms of danger, in their careers on the force. There weren't things like shootouts and bank heists in King County, not like in the bigger cities. The biggest thing had been the bust of a drug den years ago, but even then, the cops had far outnumbered the crooks and it had been over quickly.

Still, he remembers sitting with Shane like this before, planning things out, pretending. How many men they'd put in that direction, who would guard the door, how many guns and reloads they had. Shane approached video games as though they were really life and death, down to the fact that he would spend time planning _strategies_ on how to beat them and encourage Rick to do the same. Rick smiles, thinking back on those moments.

"Honestly? I'm just worried about getting' overrun," Shane says after another moment of silence, sitting back as his dark eyes look over the host of weapons. "And not just from those things, either. People might come along, and we have more food or whatever, and they decide to just try for it."

Rick nods. "I'm not as worried about that," he replies, and starts to push the rifles to one side since only Daryl's pack is long enough to hold them, while his and Shane's can handle the pistols. They keep them all unloaded, just for now. "I don't have a problem with doing what needs to be done." He pauses, then, raising his eyes to Shane. "Will you?"

"What do you mean?" Shane asks, and Rick's eyes narrow. Shane _knows_ what he means – but if Rick admits it first, then he's the worse one. He's the villain. Still, it's necessary.

"Are you willing to kill a man for Lori and Carl?" Rick asks flatly, without inflection. Shane blinks at him and sits up a little straighter. "You gonna look someone in the eye and plant one right here -." Shane stands, abruptly, and Rick stands with him, pushing his fingertip against his own forehead. "Because they threatened your family and you have to?"

"What, like you would?" Shane bites out.

"I have," Rick replies, letting his hand fall. "I _did_."

"Yeah…" Shane traps his tongue between his lips, and nods, putting his hands on his hips and shifting his weight so that his stance grows wider. "Yeah, you did."

Something changes in the air between them, from hostile and aggressive to distrusting and wary. Rick lets his shoulders fall, submits to Shane's larger frame for now, and cocks his head to one side. "You pick your people," he says, quiet and just like he'd said to Daryl, "and you decide, for those people, there isn't anything you won't do. You can let Lori cling to her _manners_ and _traditions_ if you want. I don't give a fuck about that. I'm going to stay alive for you, and for her, and for Carl, and for Daryl and Merle – and if that means someone else has to die, then so be it."

Shane wants to call him crazy so bad – Rick can see it in his eyes, the slight drop of his mouth, the way his tongue keeps flicking against the back of his top teeth. But he doesn't. Instead, he says; "So, Daryl and Merle, huh? They count as family now, too?"

"As far as I'm concerned, yes," Rick replies, and wonders if Shane can see what Lori saw so easily, see the heat of desire and adoration in Rick's skin, the twist of his mouth, the slope of his shoulders, the curl of his fingers.  He wonders if perhaps there is some mark on them, Daryl and him, that binds them together so obviously that whoever doesn't notice is either a fool or blind. "But you don't know him as well as I do. I understand if you -."

"It's just, I ain't ever seen you like this, man," Shane says.

"I've always been like this."

"We both know that ain't true." Shane shakes his head and Rick blinks at him. "It's like you're…more alive than you were before. In that place, and then before that, in the hospital, you were so… _thin_ , and faded. I don't know." Shane abruptly drops his imposing stance and brushes the vague thoughts to one side.

Rick looks down at the bags of guns, licking his lips, and then scratches the back of his neck. "You remember the first time I saw Lori?" he asks, and Shane tilts his head, regarding him with a wary eye. "We were…it was like third day that year, and I saw her, and I leaned over and told you that I _had_ to find out who she was. That I was gonna marry her."

"Yeah," Shane says, quiet and hoarse. "I remember."

"I love you, Shane," Rick says. "I'll say it open and honest, man, you're my brother and my best friend. And you…" He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. "You told me she'd never give me the time of day. She'd never go out with me, or anything else." Shane smiles, fondly. "But I went up to her anyway, and I asked her out, and she said yes – and because of that she has Carl, and now she has you, and I think…I think it all worked out, when all's said and done."

"What's your point, Rick?"

"I'm just asking you to believe me," Rick says, stepping forward and reaching out to gently touch Shane's arm. "You didn't believe I would marry Lori, but I did. You don't believe that we should go to Atlanta, but I'm saying we should. Just…I'm just asking you to _believe_ me. When I say I _have_ to, because I do."

"This…ain't even close to the same thing, brother," Shane says, but there's no real fight in him anymore. He's tired to his bones, Rick can see that. In contrast, Rick has never felt more alive, more _present_ , than he does right now. He lets his hand fall from Shane's arm so that the man doesn't feel pressured. Then, Shane lifts his eyes to the ceiling and rubs both hands over his face, then up through his hair. Rick can hear his nails scraping. "But…okay. I'll admit you're usually right, annoying as that makes you."

Rick grins, wide and bright with victory. "So you'll come with me to Atlanta?"

Shane nods. "Yep. Atlanta it is."

Rick lets out a little whoop of victory, reaching forward and grabbing Shane's forearm and grinning when the man holds his in return. They shake, once, and then Rick pulls Shane in by the back of his neck into a tighter hug. He can't remember the last time he hugged Shane. His friend is warm, his scent a little sharp with old sweat and stress, the muscles of his back tense under Rick's closed fist.

They stand like that for a while, before someone clears their throat and forces them apart. It's Daryl, looking between them with impassive eyes, and Rick smiles at him. "Daryl," he says, automatically stepping towards the man, drawn to him like a meteor to Earth. He wants to crash into Daryl, tear his flesh open and make a home for himself in the man's heart. Daryl is carrying one of the bags they'd stuffed full of medicine.

"Am I interrupting?" he asks gruffly.

"No," Rick says, shaking his head. "What's in the bag?"

Daryl looks down at it, as though forgetting he was holding it, and lifts it up a little. "Dunno why I didn't think of it before," he says. "Got enough painkillers and sleeping shit in here to knock out a rhino. I figured we could just give it to Merle and move 'im."

Shane makes a dismissive sound. "How far you think we're gonna get with all that dead weight?" he asks. "What if we get surrounded and have to make a quick getaway?"

There's something cold in Daryl's eyes when he shrugs his shoulder, looking down. "Ain't my fault he decided the first thing he was gonna do was shoot up at the end of the world," he says, a little defensively, but mostly just resigned. Like he's tired of fighting this, with himself and with others. Rick can't imagine how many of these conversations Daryl has had to have in his head, every day of his life. "If it comes to it, I can leave 'im behind. But we can't stay here too long, can't afford to get comfortable."

Rick nods and takes the bag from Daryl, opening it up and looking through it. "Need us to help?" he asks, because he's sure there's more to Daryl not bringing it up than it just slipping his mind. Rick knows his priority in the pharmacy had been painkillers and gauze and things to sew up wounds, antibiotics and shit like that. He hadn't thought to get something to help people sleep. He wonders, idly, who Daryl might have been thinking about when he was grabbing it.

Daryl licks his lips and nods. "Please."

"We doin' this now?" Shane asks, sounding startled.

Rick nods. "Now," he says. "Grab the guns and get Lori and Carl ready to leave. Daryl and I will handle Merle."

"C'mon, brother, I know you're stubborn but you can't lift a guy on your own. You'll get crushed."

"Merle _is_ heavy," Daryl admits. "You saw 'im."

Rick rolls his eyes. "Look, Lori will be a lot more _amiable_ to moving if it's _not me_ suggestin' it, okay? So I'm gonna make myself useful and help with Merle but that's the only place I can help. So, please, just do what I say for now."

Shane traps his tongue between his lips and sighs through his nose, nodding. "Alright. Fine. In the garage in fifteen." Then he disappears through the kitchen into the backyard where Lori and Carl are. Rick nods to Daryl and shoulders the laundry bag before they both head upstairs.

"What were you two talkin' about, 'fore I got there?" Daryl asks half-way up, his steps slow, his face hidden by his hair. Rick can hear the anxiety and tension in his voice, and wishes that he were able to reach out and soothe Daryl's insecurities like they were physical things, as easily as brushing back his hair or letting his fingers trail down Daryl's arm.

"I was trying to convince Shane to come with us to Atlanta," Rick replies, and Daryl nods and gives a non-committal huff. "I don't know if he's War, and I don't want Lori or Carl or him to get into that much danger, but I know we're stronger together."

"Didn't say we weren't," Daryl says. They're at the top of the stairs now and Rick shadows Daryl's left, blocking his way to the room where Merle is staying. The room is quiet. He must be asleep. Rick remembers seeing drug addicts recovering sometimes in their cells when they'd get arrested. Most of the time they just slept. The other times they moaned and howled like demons. "I just…"

"What?" Rick asks. He ducks his head to try and catch Daryl's eyes. "You just…what?"

Daryl lifts his eyes, his face shadowed and pale. "Nothin'," he says.

Rick swallows hard enough he can feel his throat click, and reaches out to run his fingers down Daryl's bicep, curling around his elbow. Daryl's fingers twitch like he wants to grab his knife and stab Rick's hand.

"Daryl, I promise," Rick says, stepping closer.

Daryl shakes his head, stepping back. "You don't even know what you're promisin' me."

"Anything," Rick breathes. " _Everything_."

"Rick, stop." Daryl raises a hand and pushes against Rick's chest, forcing him to halt a safe distance away. Rick lets go of his arm and his hand feels like it's burning where it was touching him. He wants to reach out and curl his fingers in Daryl's shirt, push his chest against Daryl's, feel the man's breathing and heartbeat as though it's his own.

Daryl pulls his hand back, his breathing unsteady. "Stop sayin' shit like that," he says, and shakes his head again. "Stop it."

"Why?" Rick says, soft but demanding. He doesn't press closer but wishes with all his might that Daryl would let him.

Daryl sighs, shaking his head one more time. He moves past Rick in the hallway and Rick allows it, following close behind as they go to Merle's room. When Daryl opens the door, Rick can't help wrinkling his nose at the stench. It smells like old piss, sweat and vomit – is probably a healthy mix of all three. Merle is on the bed, wrapped up tightly in bedsheets, completely bare except for his filthy underwear and a dirty wife beater, slick with sweat and clinging to his body.

"Fuck's sake," Daryl mutters.

"If it helps, you're definitely the prettier brother," Rick says, and that makes Daryl roll his eyes and shove at Rick's arm. His cheeks are pink, though, and bulge where he's trying to fight off his smile.

"Help me get him upright," Daryl says. There's a can of soup, half-full by Merle's hand on the floor. It's slick with spit and Rick blanches, nudging it to one side. He curls his hands under one of Merle's arms, Daryl on his other side, and they haul him up.

Merle thrashes against them, bellowing loudly, his eyes wide and glazed over. "Get yer fuckin' hands off me!" he yells, throwing himself back hard enough that both Rick and Daryl have to let go. Rick jumps back when Merle's fist comes flying his way.

"Just keep back," Daryl says, his expression cold and calculated. He's had to do this before, Rick is sure. "He'll get tired in a second. Just stay back."

"Aww, shit," Merle groans, trembling, and his eyes sharpen suddenly and snap to Daryl's face. "Oh, baby brother! Knew you'd come f'r me. Help ol' Merle up."

"Just tried," Daryl mutters, kicking the mattress. "Almost clocked us one."

Merle groans again, sounding more broken and empty than the walkers outside. His eyes rove away from Daryl, across the ceiling, before settling on Rick. "Hey, it's – it's the nutter!" he says, reaching out and grasping weakly at Rick's shirt. Rick is reminded, suddenly, of James, with his brain cooked to all Hell and his stuttering voice. Sweet James. At least he didn't have to suffer.

"Hey," Merle says, stringing out the word for several seconds. He wraps a hand limply in Rick's shirt and tugs. "Nutterbutter, you can sweet-talk my lil bro, can'tcha? He's a real sucker for eyes like yers."

" _Merle_ ," Daryl growls, embarrassed and horrified. He grabs his brother's arm and hauls him back until Merle lets go of Rick's shirt. "Shut up and go back to sleep before I smother you with a Goddamn pillow."

"You're gonna kill me," Merle moans, his eyes closing as though he's suffered a terrible offense. "Leave me all alone here, kill me in my sleep and ride off into the sunset. I know the likes of both a'ya's."

His words are starting to slur together, quieter and slower as he succumbs to the terrible weariness of withdrawal. He rolls over onto his side and Rick winces at the large, yellow stain he can now see under the mattress where Merle once was. Daryl draws back, eyeing him carefully, before he straightens up with a nod.

"Gimme the bag," he says, and Rick hands it to him wordlessly. Daryl roots through it and after a moment comes back up with two small, white boxes. They don't rattle – they're the kind of pills that come in packs of two and have to be pushed out. Daryl pushes out eight.

Rick raises an eyebrow, but doesn't comment. "There's a half-can of soup here," he says, bending down and grabbing it from the floor and holding it out in offering. "We could crush 'em up and make him drink it."

Daryl nods, biting his lower lip, and sets the eight pulls down on the bedside table. He pulls out his hunting knife from his belt, still sheathed, and holds the knife so that the handle is not in his hand. With one hand braced against the end of the handle and the other wrapped around the sheathed blade, he grinds the handle against the pills with a small grunt. They break easily under the pressure and soon become a chunky white-yellow powder, matted against the shiny varnish of the wooden table.

Rick nods at the little pile. "You've done this before."

Darl grunts and slides his knife back through his belt. "We've all done stuff," he says. "Gimme the can."

Rick hands it to him and watches as Daryl bends down to scrape the powder into the soup can, using the side of his hand to do so, before he straightens and wipes it off on his jeans. He swishes the can around like it's an empty beer, searching for those last few drops.

"You hold his nose, I'll pour," he says, and Rick nods and leans over the bed enough to hold Merle's head still, and pinches his nose closed as Daryl grabs his chin and tips the soup-sleeping-pill concoction into his mouth. Merle gurgles, fighting against it, but Rick and Daryl hold him down and Daryl works to pet his throat, encouraging him to swallow.

"That should do it," he murmurs when the can is pretty much empty, setting it back down, and pushes himself back to upright. "Can't do much about the state he's in, but it'll have to work. We can get him wrapped up in the backseat or somethin'."

"That'll be fun," Rick says. "Should provide entertainment though. Could listen to him go on about my eyes some more."

He's trying to make light of the situation, but he can tell from Daryl's face that it doesn't quite land. Daryl's mouth twists and he makes a sound like he's trying to scoff, but it comes out more of a gasp like someone punched him. He grabs Merle's shoulders and hauls him to a vaguely sitting position. "Gonna help or just stand there?" he says, and Rick sighs and tucks himself under Merle's arm, taking his weight across his shoulders.

They manage to, limpingly, unsteadily, get Merle downstairs. Daryl barks out an order for someone to get him a blanket and Shane comes out of the garage, holding out a thin sheet he must have pilfered from the beds they'd been borrowing over the last couple of days.

His nose wrinkles and he looks like he'd rather not go near any of them with a ten-foot pole. "So…this is the brother, huh?"

"I'm sure he cleans up fine," Rick says, grunting as they work to wrap Merle up in the sheet. It's a cheap, toga-like burrito they end up with but it'll do the trick of keeping him warm and preserving his modesty.

Daryl barks a laugh. "Wouldn't know what clean looked like on him, promise," he says, and then he and Rick continue the last part of the journey of getting Merle into the truck. It's a difficult task and Shane ends up having to help with that final haul. Rick isn't as strong as he used to be and Merle is a large guy, even without being dead weight in their arms.

"What I wouldn't give for a shower," Shane complains, wiping his hands off on his thighs. Rick can't help agreeing with a nod. It feels like there's a second layer of skin on him at this point, a little bit too old and uncomfortable to ignore once he's started to think about it. And now, of course, he smells a little too much like eau d'Merle.

Carl comes running around the front of the truck and skids to a halt in front of the men, Lori on his heels. "Where are we going, dad?" he asks, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Rick smiles and reaches out, ruffling Carl's hair gently.

"Atlanta," he says, raising his eyes to Lori's sullen, resigned expression. Shane must have told her a similar thing – they were going, and that was final.

Atlanta is half a day's drive, and Rick is sure they will make it there by nightfall. Still, part of him hesitates. _Atlanta,_ Death had told him to go to Atlanta, but he hadn't actually said what Rick would find there. Maybe this is a trick to shed the dead weight – Death had promised him Daryl, but the rest of Rick's family, and Merle, were not part of the negotiation. Rick hopes that Death is understanding, is accommodating.

"It'll be dark soon," Lori says after a moment. "Do we need to leave today?"

"We should," Rick replies with a nod. "If it gets too dark before we're there, we'll stop somewhere else. I'm sure we'll manage."

Lori presses her lips together, before she grabs Carl's shoulders and steers him back towards their stolen car. Daryl moves around the driver's side door of the truck, and Rick turns and grabs Shane's arm before he can follow Lori and Carl.

He pulls Shane close to him and speaks directly into his ear; "This goes south, you take them and run," he commands, his hand tight on Shane's arm so that the other man can't pull away. "Promise me."

Shane sucks in a breath and nods, his eyes wide. Rick looks at him for another long moment, assessing, calculating, before he determines that Shane is lying to him and lets him go. Oh, he'll get Lori and Carl safe, of that Rick has no doubt. But the implication that he would stay away and not come back for Rick – that he won't agree to. Rick sighs and turns away, climbing into the passenger seat of the truck. Daryl turns the car on, rolling the windows down so that the ripeness of Merle's scent doesn't get to them so badly.

Shane hauls the garage doors open for them. The road is bright and clear, the day sunny, and Daryl rolls out of the garage first once Shane moves out of the way. He waits, idling on the road, for the second car to come out of the garage, and then they're off.

They drive slowly, eyes open and wary for any of the walkers drawn by the noise, or other people creeping between the houses or the trees. There don't seem to be any, not even any wildlife picking at the bodies already fallen – though those are scarce as well.

Rick looks over his shoulder occasionally, to make sure Merle is still asleep and secure, and that the second red car is following closely behind them. For the most part, though, he tries to close his eyes and rest. When his mind is clear it's a lot easier to hear what Death is saying to him, and a lot easier to conjure his presence in Rick's mind. He takes in a deep breath, but can't concentrate over the burbling roar of the engine and the tense silence sitting between him and Daryl like a great serpent.

Finally, he sighs, opening his eyes again.

"You're angry with me," he says. He doesn't need to see the white in Daryl's knuckles or the bulge in his jaw to know that. He can feel it, sliding across his skin like water.

Daryl blows out a breath. "I ain't," he replies.

"Frustrated, then," Rick says, rolling his eyes.

"Ain't that either."

"Well, you're _something_ ," Rick insists. His hands are folded in his lap but his fingers are laced tightly. It's a habit he picked up to stop himself fidgeting or scratching at the back of his neck. Sometimes he scratches so hard that he bleeds. He tilts his head back until it rests against the headrest, staring with eyes half-lidded out onto the road. "Does it bother you that much?"

"What?" Daryl asks, and it's challenging.

"You know what," Rick says. If Daryl is determined not to name it, not to address it, then Rick won't give him the satisfaction of folding first. Daryl must feel his adoration like sunlight – Rick isn't exactly subtle about it. He can't be, if Lori picked it up so quickly. And they'd talked about it – hadn't they? Did their short, non-committal conversations count as acknowledgement?

He searches for something, some collection of words from what he knows, that will satisfy how he feels with what Daryl is comfortable acknowledging. He can't think of anything to say.

But Daryl breaks first. "It ain't easy bein' what I am in Georgia, Rick," he says quietly. His hands have loosened on the steering wheel, petting the seam in the leather almost absently. "And it ain't gonna be easy bein' what you are, either. I get…I don't like thinking about combining those two things."

 _What I am. What you are_. "What, gay and crazy?" Rick says, and Daryl winces at the words. "We'll all be murderers soon, Daryl. What does it matter?"

Daryl shakes his head. "Something's gotta matter," he replies. "Even in…even in all this, Rick, _somethin's_ gotta matter."

"Daryl…" Rick reaches out and lets his hand rest on the bench seat between the two of them. Daryl's thigh goes tense, he'd pull away if he wasn't driving. He can feel Daryl's uneasiness, taste his reluctance. It makes him want to cover and consume the man all the more.

Strange, how the words can come so easily to him with Shane, or Lori, but not this man.

"Don't you dare," Daryl hisses, his fingers curling around the steering wheel again. Rick blinks at him, finally lifting his head and turning it to face the other man. Daryl's jaw is clenched so hard Rick can hear the squeak of his teeth as they grind together. "Don't."

"But I do," Rick says. "And I promise."

"And if we get to Atlanta, and we get overrun, and I lose you – then what? What happens then?"

"You won't, you won't lose me. I _promise_."

"You can't promise that."

"Daryl -."

He's interrupted by the screech of brakes behind them, and Daryl slows to a stop as Rick turns to look over his shoulder. He doesn't immediately see the second car and that alone is enough to make him panic, but then he sees movement.

A pack of walkers has come out of the trees, drawn by the sounds of the engines, and they've surrounded the car. There's eight, maybe ten of them, and Rick presses his lips together and reaches down to make sure his gun is on him. He has a hunting knife as well tucked into the other side of his belt.

Daryl is already scrambling out the other side, understanding like before that there isn't much he'll be able to do to stop Rick. The walkers are mostly around the hood of the car and stumble back as Shane revs the engine, knocking a few of them down and away. Rick takes those out first, stabbing them swiftly in the side of the head where the flesh is soft and gives easily.

"Rick!"

Rick looks up just in time to see Daryl lunge for a walker that was getting too close to him, stabbing the thing in the eye and shoving it away with a grunt. "Watch yourself, you idiot!" Daryl yells, and Rick grins and blows out a breath and leaps for another walker.

The walkers are turning towards them, more enticed by the fresh meat in their midst than they are interested in beating through the windows of a car. As they move away from the car Rick hears a door open and growls under his breath.

"Stay in the car!" he yells, assuming it's Shane. "We've got this!"

 _You need to be able to run_.

There's a sound, then, sudden, a scrape of metal against metal, a sword being unsheathed. Rick knows it's in his head – it _has_ to be in his head, none of them have weapons like that – but that doesn't stop the sudden, icy rush of fear and dread running down his back. The air feels hot against his neck where the blade of the sword rests. Or maybe it's his scythe. He doesn't dare look.

The sound of a gunshot shatters the relative silence and Rick flinches when a walker's head explodes near his shoulder. Its mouth had been open, curling claws ready. Rick looks over and sees Shane, his gun pointed towards Rick.

Rick can't hesitate any longer. There's another walker lunging at his neck and he shoves it away, onto the ground, and kneels over it and stabs it through the skull. Daryl takes out another in his periphery. He doesn't hear Shane fire his gun again.

The last one goes down with another snarl and Rick grimaces, yanking his knife back out from its head and straightening with another sigh. He wipes the back of his hand, still holding the knife, across his forehead. Black goo and blood is smeared down his hand now and across his face. He pays it no mind.

Then, the door slams and Shane is stalking towards them, puffed up and angry. "You outta your fucking mind?" he demands, using his gun to point at Rick's chest. Rick goes tense, unsteady. There's a crown on Shane's head, glinting and golden, and the car is still idling, purring and puffing like a horse ready to charge. Shane jams the muzzle of his gun against Rick's chest. "Throwin' yourself into a pack of those things? You almost got yourself killed!"

" _You_ almost got me killed," Rick says, tilting his chin up. "I know how you shoot." _You sure you were aiming for the walker?_

"What you tryin' to say, Grimes?" Shane hisses. "You think I would'a shot if it wasn't clear? That thing was almost on you."

Rick shakes his head and sighs. He's not sure, exactly, what he's trying to say at all. Maybe he isn't trying to say anything – maybe like with Lori, and with Daryl, he's trying to get the other person to admit it first. But he's never been good at that.

He lifts his hand and nudges his knuckles against Shane's gun, pushing it to one side. Shane deflates with another angry sound and lowers it, his hand still gripping it tightly.

"Lori and Carl okay?" Rick asks.

Shane traps his tongue between his teeth and looks over his shoulder at the car. Lori is still inside, her face pale with fear and her eyes wide. Carl is visible between the two front seats, an awed expression on his face.

"Probably a little spooked, is all," Shane finally replies.

Daryl makes an anxious sound next to them, drawing Rick's attention. "The shot'll have drawn more. We should keep moving."

"Right," Rick says. He sends another look Shane's way and waits for his nod before he turns his back. He doesn't miss how Daryl lingers, his eyes on the trees and hand on his knife, before he subsides too and hurries back towards the truck.

"Must'a come outta nowhere," Daryl says, his door shutting with a creak. He adjusts the rear-view mirror to make sure Shane is following them again before he continues to drive.

Rick hums, nodding.

"The fuck was that whole show about?" Daryl asks. Rick turns his head to meet Daryl's eyes, and he's not quite sure what to say.

"You'll think I'm paranoid."

"Maybe," Daryl says with a shrug. "But you should tell me anyway. That's how it's gotta work, Rick. I decided that, just now. _Honesty_ and _loyalty's_ gotta matter, nowadays. So, tell me."

Rick blows out a breath through his nose and scratches the back of his neck hard enough that the sweat-dry skin chafes and stings under his nails. "I…I don't know how to explain it," he says. "Shane is – he might be War. But he can't be War because it doesn't make sense. So I'm paranoid. But I can't help thinking that…" He sighs, closing his eyes. "Shane doesn't want to go to Atlanta, doesn't want to bring Lori and Carl there. It'd be a lot easier for him to get what he wants if I was out of the picture."

"So you're sayin' he meant to shoot at you," Daryl says. "If he hit you, unhappy accident."

"Shane ain't that good a shot," Rick agrees. "I've seen him. Unlikely he got much better since I was away. He could just as easily been aimin' for me as that walker."

"But you don't know that."

"No." Rick shakes his head. "I'm so…tired of thinking this way. I don't _want_ to think this way. I don't want to doubt my friend."

"Rick…" Rick raises his head, opening his eyes again to look Daryl's way. The other man is chewing on the inside of his lower lip, before he sighs and shakes his head, hand tightening on the steering wheel. "Nothin'. Don't even know what to say to that."

"You don't have to say anything," Rick replies, smiling a little. "That's one of the things I always liked about you."

Daryl huffs, his lips twitching in response. "You should get some rest," he says after a moment. "Cat nap or somethin'. I'll wake you if we need you. Know you haven't been sleepin' worth a damn."

Rick would protest, but he feels tired to the bone and he's not sure he wants to fight Daryl on that. He shifts in place until his shoulder is braced against the sun-warmed window and rests his temple against it. Walker blood smears across the glass but he pays it no mind.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately I didn't have time to proofread this. Let me know if you see any major mistakes! I hope you guys like it.

There's a whistle – many voices coming together to make the sound. It's not one of Daryl's whistles but Rick still follows it, his breathing heavy and shallow, his heart pounding. Fear is making his neck and hands feel cold and it's a different kind of cold than when Death appears. Death's cold is like acceptance, it's what Rick imagines freezing to death feels like, when the body starts to give up and go calm. This cold is frantic, panicked. He's not ready, _he's not ready_.

He hears the snarls of dogs and they sound strangely like engines. He can't see the bodies of them, but he can see their eyes shifting between the trees. They're red, glowing, burning with anger. Rick can feel them like they're gnawing at his flesh. He scratches at the insides of his arms and his fingertips come back red.

"Rick!"

It's not a voice he recognizes – it's not Lori's, or Shane's, or Carl's, or Daryl's. It's no one he's heard before. It sounds jovial, like a long-lost uncle welcoming him home. He heads towards it, something like dread sinking in his gut. His shoulders feel heavy as though he's carrying a great weight, his booted feet drag through the leaves and make him trip over fallen branches and rocks, snapping twigs. He can't afford to be silent.

He crests a hill and he's looking out into an open plain, the trees fading from him like passing shadows. He sucks in a huge breath of air, and it's like he's finally able to breathe now. His hair is wet as though it's been raining and it's so fucking _cold_.

"Rick! You made it!"

There are three figures standing in the little valley below him. He knows who they are, even if it weren't for the giant horses circling them or the fire illuminating their weapons and garb. War is standing facing away from him. To his right is Pestilence, and across from him is Famine. Rick steps forward slowly, taking Death's place at War's left side, and he wonders if he'll finally be able to see the man's face.

Behind him he hears a breath from a great beast and turns, looking into the dark eyes of a horse at his shoulder. The animal is gigantic, its shoulder almost past Rick's head. It is as pale as a ghost, almost see-through. It winks at him, shaking its mane, which is long and rolls from side to side on its neck as though passing through the flesh, like the hair is no more than an illusion. Or maybe the horse is. Rick reaches out to touch it, lays his bloody fingers on the animal's neck. Its ears prick forward towards him.

The dogs break out of the tree line, barking and braying, and the four horses scatter. Pestilence's takes the lead, flashing white and stark like a stain of paint on the green velvet of the plain. Behind it, War's horse, red as blood and shining as though wet with it, follows. Then Famine's, indistinguishable once the firelight stops from the blackness of the night sky. Rick's follows at a break-neck speed, flitting between the four of them like a shroud of mist. It's the smallest of the four, fleet and fine. Rick smiles, watching it go.

The dogs follow after the horses and disappear.

Rick looks back at the other three. There's a fire in the middle of them, like they're out camping on any normal day. War's crown glints in a mesmerizing way, taking on the movement and dance of the flames, growing large on his head. Rick can't, for the life of him, make features out of his face. Across from Rick, Pestilence is as white as his horse, his eyes huge like a fly, beaded, glistening. His teeth are yellow and crooked in all directions, his fingers long and curled up against his chest. He stands like an upright fetus, curled in on himself and cloaked in grey. Laying on the grass by his bare feet is a staff, sharpened to a needle-like point on one end and Rick can see a thin vein of mercury-like liquid moving around within the staff, ready to infect and spread its disease.

Famine cackles on his right. He looks like an incredibly thin man, his face human but strangely sharp, like whoever created him didn't bother with muscle but merely stretched the face over a skull and decided to keep it that way. His mouth is open and gaping, like one of the walkers, and Rick can hear the faint roar of air being drawn in as though Famine is aching to consume even their breaths. His eyes are on the fire, ravenous. He twitches, hair that is thin and sleek laying limp on his neck. His hands are his weapon, fingers clawed like those of a bird of prey.

War stands among them mightily, tall and proud as any great King or general should. He's wearing armor that shines in the firelight, polished to a brilliant glow. His sword hangs by his side in its scabbard, but that isn't the only weapon he has. His red cloak is tucked up tight to his neck but doesn't conceal his face. Rick wishes he could _see_ them, see the men they will possess so that he will know them on sight – so that he will know if Shane is one of them.

They stand in silence, unmoving except for the occasional twitch from Famine. Rick licks his lips, too aware of his mortality among them. He lifts his hand and scratches at the back of his neck until he starts to feel pain.

Pestilence abruptly sucks in a breath, looking up at the three of them gathered. "I guess I'll speak first," he says, his voice raspy and gentle. Rick blinks at him. "Seems only right."

"Yes," War says. "Only right."

Famine giggles next to him, high-pitched and mad, his head twitching to the side. "Nice to see the final one's arrived," he says, eyes flicking to Rick, then back to War. His jaw doesn't move when he talks but the rush calms for a brief moment.

They all look at him and Rick blinks again. "…Sorry I'm late?" he hazards, and Pestilence lets out a hissing laugh.

"We know what you're up to, Death," he says.

War laughs, the noise booming like a canon. "You can't hide from us."

"We'll find you," Famine whispers.

Rick swallows. He wants to step back from the fireplace, to find his horse and flee with the animals. This can't be a vision. He hopes to God or whoever might be listening that it's not a vision. "Won't matter," he whispers, fingers flexing. It's reassuring to feel the weight of his pistol at his thigh. "I hope you find me."

Pestilence laughs, and War joins in, and Famine starts in with his own insane cackle. Rick's fingers curl into his palm and he flinches back when they all turn towards him, reaching for their weapons. His hand reaches instinctively for his gun and Pestilence blinks, his bugged eyes clicking with the movement.

"That won't help," he hisses, gleefully.

War grins, hand on the pommel of his sword. "You're in our world now."

With a shriek, Famine lunges for him, and Rick feels his clawed hands digging into the side of his neck.

"Rick! _Rick!_ "

Rick jerks awake with a shout, shaking so hard he's sure he's going into shock. This is how being shot felt, he's sure of it – panic and blood and _why is there blood_?

"Rick!"

Daryl slams on the brakes on the truck and pulls off to one side of the road, killing the engine immediately. He grabs Rick's hands and pulls them away from his neck, where Rick realizes he had been clawing. There's blood under his nails and coating his fingertips.

Daryl holds his hands tightly, not letting go when Rick flinches from him. "Rick, I'm here," he murmurs, his thumbs resting lightly on the inside of Rick's wrists. It stings there and when Rick looks down he can see where he was scratching there too. "I'm here."

"D -." Rick sucks in a shuddering breath. It feels like he's having a panic attack, he's slick with sweat and cold all over. There's goose bumps on his arms and he feels the harsh prickling feeling down his back and thighs like they're there, too. He licks his lips and tries to think of something that will help to calm him down but every time he closes his eyes all he can see is the hunger in Famine's eyes and the chill of Pestilence's voice and War, always War, looming over him like a mountain peak. "Daryl."

"I'm here," Daryl says again, and he drags his hands up Rick's forearms, and back down. The motion is gentle, soothing, smearing the blood down Rick's skin. His neck hurts. His wrists hurt. Daryl's hand catches on his wristband and Rick lets out a broken-sounding sob.

He turns his hands and catches Daryl's forearms and holds on. He wants to squeeze, as tight as he can, but his fingers feel weak and unresponsive. His face is tacky and he realizes he's crying, too.

" _Fuck_." Abruptly he draws away, wiping the back of his hands across his face to remove any evidence of the tears. His hands are shaking terribly, like they're attached to his arms by nothing more than a thin piece of twine. He turns to face the front of the truck and puts his head in his hands and shudders. "Oh my God, _fuck_."

"You're alright," Daryl whispers. His hand flattens on Rick's shoulder, rubbing lightly. There's no fear – there _should_ be fear. Rick feels like he's seconds away from losing his damned mind. "You're awake now. It was just a dream. I'm here. I'm right here, and you're awake now."

Rick squeezes his eyes shut so tightly that new tears are forced out, and he sucks in another harsh breath. He has to get it the fuck together, before Shane or Lori or Carl sees him like this. Daryl had slammed on the brakes really hard and he's sure he has their attention. He can't hear the other car idling behind them.

He licks his lips again and tries to whistle, because that's something he can be sure about in his waking hours. But he can't make his mouth stay long enough to make the shape, and he can't get enough air in his lungs to create the sound.

Daryl understands. He whistles softly – low, high, low. Rick shudders and sobs again. The blood on his hands is starting to dry but his neck aches and his wrists sting.

He reaches out and grabs hold of Daryl's thigh, squeezing tight. "Me – me too," he stutters, and opens his eyes, and closes them again. He takes another deep breath. " _God_ , Daryl, me too."

Daryl hums the little tune again, and squeezes Rick's shoulder. "We're going to stop for the night," he says quietly. "I'll tell Lori and Shane."

"Don't leave me."

It's whispered, so quietly Daryl could ignore it if he chooses to. Rick wouldn't blame him. But he doesn't. He doesn't pull away and he doesn't move his hand from Rick's shoulder.

"I won't leave you," Daryl says, and it's like a vow – something more sacred than Rick has ever spoken, more holy than a church. "I'm right here, Rick."

"Please, please don't leave me," Rick whispers again, shaky and soft. He can't make himself loosen his hand on Daryl's thigh. His voice is thick with tears he won't let himself shed. "I'm – he's not here. And they're coming. And if you – I can't lose you. Please don't leave me."

This isn't healthy. Rick knows it, and he can't make himself stop, any more than he would willingly stop eating fast food or staying up late watching horror movies when he has early court appointments in the morning. Knowing it's bad for him and knowing it's unhealthy doesn't make him want it any less.

Daryl licks his lips and his hand slides to the back of Rick's sore, clawed neck. His fingers curl in Rick's hair and pet there gently, uncaring for the sweat and blood already caked in there. "I won't," he says again, just as solemnly, just as full of promise. And Rick wants to believe him, so he does. Daryl sighs. "You gotta stop hurting yourself."

"I don't mean to do it," Rick replies. He ducks his head and submits to Daryl's light petting, closing his eyes again. The firelight burned into the backs of his eyelids is starting to dim and fade away. "When I dream, things attack me, and when I wake up I feel the pain. I don't know how to stop."

Daryl hums, his mouth twisting. He doesn't say anything in response but Rick can _feel_ him thinking. Maybe they'll pick up a strait jacket for Rick, for when he sleeps. Maybe they should have gotten one at the facility. If Rick can hurt himself in his sleep, he can hurt others.

"We passed a trailer park about a mile back," Daryl says after another moment. "We can probably hole up there for the night."

Rick nods and finally manages to unhook his hand from Daryl's thigh. Daryl starts the truck without another word and puts his hand back in Rick's hair once he's able to. Rick doesn't even try to fight the desire to slide closer to Daryl's side and sigh, contented and on his way to calm under Daryl's touch.

Daryl pulls a u-turn and slides up to the red car. Shane rolls the window down and fixes Daryl with his best "the fuck was that?" expression. "We're stopping for the night," Daryl says, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Trailer park couple lights back."

Shane presses his lips together, his eyes searching for Rick behind Daryl's shoulder, before he nods. "Lead the way," he says, and Daryl drives on without any pre-amble. They make it back to the trailer park within minutes. There are abandoned cars littered everywhere, but truthfully Rick wouldn't be able to say if those were there before the apocalypse or not. Stray dogs dart in front of the truck as they pass, disappearing between the trailers. Daryl drives to the one farthest back. It's a little removed from the rest of them and he pulls up onto the little patch of lawn surrounding the thing.

There's an American flag slung across the doorway. Daryl snorts, smirking, and lets go of Rick's hair.

"You okay to clear it with me?" he asks, and Rick nods, licking his lips and getting out of the truck. His knees are weak and his steps are unsteady but he manages to follow Daryl to the trailer. They tap on the door and wait for any tell-tale hiss or groan or sound of movement. There's a window by the door and Rick flinches when a walker slams itself up against it, hissing and snarling.

"God _damn_ it," he grunts, running a hand through his hair. Daryl huffs and nods towards it. Rick sucks in a deep breath and wills his hands to stop their shaking. "Alright, I'm good."

Daryl nods and yanks the door open. The walker hisses at him and falls against him and he grabs it, hauling it out of the trailer and to the ground, stabbing it through the skull without ceremony. He's yanking the knife out of its skull when another walker stumbles into the doorway and Rick leaps forward with a yell.

He slams it against the door and drives his knife into its eye – once, twice, gritting his teeth as it claws at him. It groans and hisses and finally collapses with a groan, slumping down onto the floor. Rick steps back and wipes the back of his wrist across his forehead.

Daryl's hand on his arm startles him and his fingers clench tight around the handle of his knife, before he remembers that it's Daryl and he sighs. "I'm good," he says again, reaching down and tapping where Daryl's hand is on his arm.

Daryl nods. "Think it's clear?" he asks, looking past Rick into the darkness of the trailer beyond. Rick looks back, licks his lips, and lets out a loud, high-pitched whistle. Nothing moves inside. Daryl pulls back and looks behind him when Shane pulls up in the second car.

Shane, Lori and Carl all get out as once and Shane sighs. "Sorry, ran into a…snag," he says, and comes to the front of the car, kicking at what looks like an arm stuck in the front wheel of the car. "Literally."

Rick huffs a laugh, running his hands through his hair. "This trailer's clear," he says, stepping down. "We can spend the night here." The sun has just started to set, the sky turning reddish. Rick swallows and tries not to think of the color of War's cloak, or the gleam of the fiery gems in his crown. He tries not to think about the fact that red has always been Shane's color.

"You think it's safe?" Lori asks, looking around and clutching Carl tightly to her side. She looks around at the other trailers but there doesn't seem to be anything moving around inside. Which is…weird. Rick frowns at the other trails and steps down from the door so that he's standing on the ground just past the steps.

Shane seems to sense Rick's wariness. They were friends and brothers, cops and partners for a long time and can read each other's changes in mood like the pages of a book. Shane shifts his weight, his hand on his gun, apparently nonchalant but ready and eyeing the trailers on the other side of where Rick is looking.

After a long pause, Rick licks his lips and takes in a deep breath through his nose. "It's so quiet," he says, looking over at Shane. The red glow has faded from the sky by now, darkening and deadening to a royal blue. Soon it'll be black.

Shane nods, slowly. There's a lamp at the edge of the lawn and it illuminates the side of the cars and shines off of the handles of the doors on the nearest trailers. "You think they're hidin', waitin'?" he asks.

Rick scratches the back of his neck with the hand holding his knife, not caring that he's smearing walker blood through his hair. "You guys sleep first," he says. "I'll take watch."

Lori makes an unimpressed noise, but doesn't argue and hustles Carl inside before it gets too cold. Neither Daryl nor Shane move, and Rick can feel their eyes on him, but he doesn't turn around. Eventually he hears Daryl sigh and follow Lori inside. He'll probably take the spot closest to the door, or maybe where he can see out of the window and keep Rick in his sights.

Rick goes and climbs up onto the bed of the truck and pulls the back up so that he has a place to hook his legs over. There isn't much space between the bags of food and Daryl's motorcycle but he makes do.

The silhouette of Shane's head and shoulders moves around until he's standing by the back wheel of the truck. They sit in silence for a while and Rick forces himself not to look to see if Shane's hand is still on his gun.

"S'too cold out here, brother," Shane finally says. The truck creaks as he leans his weight against it.

Rick hums. "It's pretty cold," he admits. He scratches the back of his neck and winces when his nails scratch over the stinging wounds he already put there.

Shane sighs. His breath mists in the air and he scratches his nails across his scalp, through his hair. "I don't get it," he says, and Rick braces himself for another lecture on how he's insane, about how Atlanta is a bad idea. "This isn't how…how things go. Where's the panic? The looting? The bodies in the streets, the cars backed up for miles?"

Rick blinks. It's a question he hadn't expected, but now that Shane mentions it, he can't help but agree. "Maybe everyone's staying in their homes, like the radio said," he offers, but he doesn't believe it himself. "Or maybe…"

"What?" Shane asks.

Rick shrugs. "Maybe by the time it started, it was already too late," he says. "When the facility turned, it went down in…minutes. Literally minutes. You get one death in a hospital, one heart attack in traffic, one accident, then…" He snaps the fingers of his free hand together.

"So we're either going to be dealing with holed-up people scared outta their minds and desperate, or an army of fucking undead." Shane rubs a hand over his mouth and shakes his head.

"I think I should go into Atlanta alone," Rick says after a moment. "You're right, Lori and Carl shouldn't be in that mess. And if I don't come back, then you guys should…go West. Or something. Find other people. I shouldn't have dragged you into this."

Shane looks at him, and Rick knows his eyes are wide. He wants to argue, but he also really doesn't.

"I know you think I'm insane," Rick murmurs, looking down at the knife in his hands. "Sometimes I think I am, too, even though I was right. But it's not safe to go to Atlanta. I just…have to go there, Shane. But you don't, and neither of them do."

"Brother, I…"

"You don't have to pretend," Rick says, smiling weakly. "I'm not…angry, Shane. I never have been. You gotta know that. I ain't that kinda guy."

Shane blows out a heavy breath. "So what're you gonna do?" he asks.

"When dawn comes, I'll walk the rest of the way. We can't be far now. I'll help Daryl give his brother more shit to make him sleep, grab enough food for a day, and a couple of the guns, and I'll go."

Shane nods slowly. "And what about Daryl and his brother? You think they'll wanna stick around?"

Rick's fingers curl around the handle of the knife hard enough to start hurting. His knuckle is bruised and his fingertips hurt from scraping the pavement. There are so many small wounds he hasn't paid attention to until now – things that he can't afford to pay attention to anyway.

He turns to look over his shoulder. Daryl's silhouette is in the window, he looks like he dragged a chair there and is sitting, the curtains slightly adjusted so that he can see outside, but Rick can't see any of his features. They don't have lights on.

"I don't know," he finally says, realizing he hasn't answered. _I hope so. God I hope so_. He turns back around to put his gaze on the rest of the trailer park. "Daryl said he'd stick around. Can't speak for his brother, though."

"Not sure having a junkie around is the smartest thing."

Rick nods, once. "I agree, but he's Daryl's brother. That means something."

"Does it?"

"It has to. You have to trust and be loyal to your people." Rick tilts his head to look down at Shane and shrugs again. "If Daryl says to kick him aside, then that's what we'll do, but I trust Daryl and Daryl wants him around, so that's what's gotta happen."

Shane seems to consider that for a moment, before he sighs. "Well, if you're set on this crazy mission, then you should at least sleep. I can keep watch."

"I'll wake you in another hour or so," Rick says. "Go, rest. Get warm."

"Rick -."

"I got some shuteye in the car," Rick adds, and doesn't mention that it had all been nightmares. "I'm not tired. _Go_."

Shane eyes him for another long moment before he subsides with a huff. "Suit yourself," he mutters, and reaches over to tap Rick's knee in a farewell before he turns and hurries inside the trailer. Rick is sure that Lori has already claimed the bed if it's clean enough to sleep in, and they'll have piled blankets onto a chair for Carl. Or he'll get the couch. Hopefully there's a second room for Daryl. Or maybe he'll sleep on the floor. Or the roof.

The image makes Rick smiles, and he looks down at the gleam of his knife in the lamplight. He lifts his head when he hears the door open and close a second time. It's strange how the sound of Daryl walking is so distinctive to him. He would recognize the man in a forest, in the desert, on concrete. Rick doesn't think there would be any place or any time where he would not recognize Daryl.

"You should get some sleep," Rick says as Daryl approaches. Daryl grunts and pulls down the back of the truck, jostling where Rick was perched, and hoists himself up to sit beside Rick. There's even less room with the two of them but at least it's warm.

"Ain't gonna sleep with Stepford in there watchin' my every damn move," Daryl replies, pulling his heels up to rest against the lowered gate of the truck, bracing his arms against his knees and biting at the cuticles of one hand. Rick laughs warmly, unable to hide how filled with joy he is whenever Daryl is near him. "'Sides, they're probably gonna start fuckin' and I don't wanna hear that."

Rick frowns. "With Carl in the room?"

"Carl's on the couch, they took the bedroom. Kid's out cold but I got good hearin', so…"

Rick laughs again. "So you decided to freeze your ass off with me?"

"Maybe I just like bein' around ya, Grimes."

Warmth, affectionate and kind, floods Rick's chest and he smiles, ducking his head again so that he can resist the urge to lean it on Daryl's shoulder. He's pretty sure he's blushing and thanks the bad light that Daryl probably can't see it.

"I like being around you, too," he says, because Daryl has gone quiet and still, like he realizes he said something he shouldn't have. Rick nudges his shoulder against Daryl's side and moves his thigh so that it's pushing against Daryl's hip. Daryl looks at him for a moment, then lets his leg relax outward so that his thigh rests across Rick's knee and their legs are almost sharing the space. Rick's smile widens and that warmth in his chest starts to spread out to his hands. He wants to wrap himself in Daryl and rest. "I'll fall asleep like this. You relax me too much."

Daryl huffs a sound that's almost like a laugh. "Someone needs to keep an eye on ya," he says.

"I was telling Shane," Rick says, "that I'm going to Atlanta on my own, at dawn. I don't want Lori or Carl to be there if it's as bad as we expect."

Daryl turns to look at him. "What, you're just gonna walk into Atlanta on your own?"

Rick grins. "That was the idea."

"Fuck, no," Daryl hisses. He drops his hand from his mouth and jabs his finger into Rick's chest. "I ain't lettin' you outta my _sight_ , Grimes. No way in Hell you're going in alone."

"I gotta," Rick says. "I can't…let any of them get hurt for me. I can't let _anyone_ get hurt 'cause'a me. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if…"

"I don't give a fuck," Daryl replies harshly, shoving his finger against Rick's sternum again. "You're not leavin' me here, you ain't leavin' me behind." Rick blinks at him, because this feels like they're talking about something different than Atlanta. Daryl's voice is thick with worry, and he pulls his hand away, fingers curling. He's shivering but Rick is sure it's not just from the cold, and he remembers the panic in Daryl's eyes from before, in the house. For all the things Rick knows about Daryl, there are a thousand more that he doesn't, and yet more he may never know. " _Fuck_ ," Daryl hisses, kicking his heel against the gate of the truck and running his hands through his hair. "I ain't lettin' ya," he says, his accent thick. "I ain't lettin' ya go alone."

"What would you have me do?" Rick asks, quiet and solemn like he's in a church. The air around them feels holy and sacred and so, so fragile. Rick worries about shattering it by speaking too loudly or moving too quickly.

Daryl heaves in a breath and straightens up, his eyes towards the sky. The lamp shines on his face and makes his skin look almost yellow. His eyes are overly bright and something sad and thorny in Rick's chest _twists_ at the thought that he made Daryl scared enough to cry.

"Tell me you won't leave me," Daryl whispers, and Rick reaches out because how can he not? He wraps his hand around Daryl's thigh where it rests over his leg. He doesn't squeeze, there's nothing sexual in the touch. He just couldn't stand another moment of not touching this man. With his other hand, he catches one of Daryl's and lays it across where he's holding Daryl's leg. It's an awkward pose for both of them but neither of them move to correct it.

Rick sighs, brushing his thumb along the back of Daryl's hand, tracing and learning the rise of the bone, the flex of each tendon, the rough skin on his knuckles. Daryl's fingers curl around his in kind, not learning, just holding on and ready to tighten if Rick starts to pull away.

Daryl draws in a breath when Rick remains silent, and it's shaky. "Tell me you won't leave me," he says again, and Rick raises his eyes from their joined hands to meet Daryl's gaze. His hair is putting most of his face in shadow, casting a silhouette from the lamplight. Rick wants to move it away, but to do that he'd have to let go of Daryl and he's not willing to yet.

He licks his lips and tries to smile. "You should know better than this," he murmurs. Daryl's mouth thins out and he frowns. "They talk about dependency a lot. I mean, I don't care, but I'm crazy. You should know better."

"I don't think you're crazy," Daryl says.

"You're biased." Rick smiles. "I can't promise what you want me to, Daryl."

Daryl frowns at him, pulling back just a little. "Why not?"

"Because the horsemen must die," Rick says. "And if I'm one of them, that means me, too. C'mon, you're smart, you gotta know that."

Daryl shakes his head. "But that can't…Death can't _die_."

"Either I'm right, or I'm crazy." Rick squeezes Daryl's fingers. "You just said you don't think I'm crazy, but you don't think I'm right, neither. S'gotta be one or the other."

"No, it doesn't." Anger, now, sweeps across Daryl's face, something black and shadowy. He pulls his hand away from Rick's and flexes his fingers as though ridding them of the feeling of Rick's warmth. "So, what? That's it? All this, you kill 'em, then yourself and it all goes away?"

Rick licks his lips and nods. "That's the idea, yes."

"No," Daryl says. "I don't accept that. I won't accept that. You're not allowed to leave me." He looks away from Rick, towards the streetlight, and then back to him. His shoulders are hunched up against the cold, he looks like he's bracing himself against the whole world. He shakes his head, once, in a short and sharp motion. "Promise me."

"Do you want me to lie to you?"

"I just…" Daryl's breath is coming heavier now, shaky once more. Rick wants to reach for him, and he would, if he didn't know that it's _him_ causing this distress in the first place. The cold is biting at his hands so much more harshly since Daryl stopped touching him. "You told me – you said "Don't wish for death". Well, I want you to promise me that you won't, either. You gotta…don't you _wanna_ stay? Don't you wanna _live_?"

Rick nods, frowning. "Of course I do."

"So if…if one'a these horsemen come at you, you're gonna _fight_ 'em, right?"

Rick nods again.

Daryl breathes out, apparently satisfied with that answer. "Okay," he says, biting his lower lip. "Okay." He straightens his leg out and Rick feels the loss immediately. He bites his lower lip to stop himself letting out a whine like a beaten animal. Still, he doesn't let Daryl move too far away from him – not that there's room to in the bed of the truck – and he plasters his leg along the other man's, humming at the warmth soaking in through their clothes.

He rests his hand, palm up, on Daryl's thigh. Daryl looks down at it, and Rick's eyes are on his face. His jaw clenches, bulging at the corner. "I won't leave you forever," Rick says quietly, "not of my own free will. That's all I can promise. It will never be my choice."

Daryl huffs a breath out through his nose, the air misting in front of his face. Then he rests his closed fist in Rick's hand, spreading his fingers out so that they form a promise of interlocking. They're not holding hands, not quite, but it feels intimate and precious as it is. Rick knows that even if he lost his entire sense of who and what he is, his soul would still recognize Daryl, his existence wouldn't let him forget.

"I guess I'll take it," Daryl says, trying to sound like he's joking, but it falls flat. He licks his lips and turns his head to look Rick in the eye. They're very close together, huddled against the cold, the clouds that their exhales form mingling together before disappearing.

They sit in silence for a long time before Rick smiles and turns his head back towards the light, remembering that technically he's meant to be here to keep watch. There hasn't been any movement or sound, and he doesn't hear any telltale sound of a walker lured over by their murmured conversation. Still, he's not sure that he would hear anything at all, when his entire being is tuned into Daryl – the sound of his breathing, the scent of him, the way his warmth feels so nice against Rick's.

"You should get some rest," Rick finally says. "I promised to wake Shane for the second watch."

Daryl nods. "You promise you won't leave for Atlanta without me?" he asks, and he sounds so young – Rick forgets, sometimes, that Daryl actually is younger than him. The man has a world-weariness about him that makes that easy to forget.

Rick tightens his fingers around Daryl's fist and smiles, and then hums the tune of their whistle.

Daryl shakes his head, laughing, and slides off the truck bed. "You're abusing that," he teases.

"You like it," Rick replies, curling up a little tighter, shivering now that Daryl is no longer next to him. "And it's true."

Rick can't see the awkward, happy smile, or the pink on Daryl's cheeks, but he can imagine it well enough. Daryl closes the back gate of the bed of the truck and reaches over to tap his fingers against Rick's boot as he moves away.

"Yeah, me too."


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rick gets a horse (:

Rick contemplates just keeping watch the whole night, but if he's going to be going into a hot zone, he should have his wits about him. He can only hope the nightmares don't come and ruin his and his family's attempts at sleeping.

He goes into the bedroom and stalks over to the bed. Shane and Lori are curled up together, a single sheet resting over both of them. Rick's shared enough tents and cars with Shane to know how warm he gets, so he doubts they're cold.

He reaches out and rests a hand on Shane's shoulder, putting more and more pressure on the soft skin just inside the joint until Shane wakes with a startled noise.

Rick draws his hand back immediately, stepping back out of range of any weapon, and holds a finger to his lips even though he's sure Shane can't see him. "S'just me, brother," he says, listening intently to the sound of Shane's heavy breathing. "Second watch is up."

"Right, right," Shane grunts, wiping a hand over his face, before he carefully slides out of bed and to his feet. He's fully clothed except for his shoes and Rick smiles, nodding his way before he leaves the bedroom. Shane follows quickly behind and closes the door. "Uh, sorry you had to see that."

"See what?" Rick asks. "My best friend and the woman he loves asleep? I think I'll manage."

"You know that's not what I meant."

Shane's voice is hushed but insistent, a harsh whisper in the silence of the trailer. They try not to wake Carl or Daryl in the main room as they walk back out to the cars, but Rick is sure Daryl is awake anyway. Shane goes to the red car and reaches inside for a bottle of water.

"I know what you meant," Rick says quietly before Shane can continue. "But I already told you, it's okay. I understand, and I'm not angry about it. _Really_."

Shane eyes him and gives a cautious-sounding hum.

"This can't work if we don't trust each other," Rick adds. "I need to be able to trust and believe you, and you need to be able to trust and believe me. I need to know that you have my back and you need to believe me when I say I have yours."

"I do believe you," Shane says, shaking his head. "I've always known you had my back, man. Never doubted that for a second."

"Then why are you acting like I'm going to lose my shit?" Rick demands. "Why do you think I'm gonna try and, shit, I don't know, man. It's like you don't trust me anymore."

Shane sighs and takes a drink of water, his other hand on his hip. He's turned away from Rick, looking towards the street, and he doesn't answer. Rick sighs, shaking his head, and walks back towards the house. Shane is silent and doesn't call him back.

Rick enters the house as quietly as he can and finds Daryl curled up in the corner, his back to the wall. He's not asleep but his eyes are closed and Rick walks over to him, settling himself down next to the other man. Daryl stretches his legs out and Rick braces his over them, so they're sitting against adjacent walls in the corner and his knees are over Daryl's, his feet flat on the floor.

He sighs, closing his eyes and leaning the back of his head against the wall, fingers rubbing absently on his thighs. Daryl rolls his head back and forth along the wall, before he blows out a breath and opens his eyes.

"Can't sleep?" Rick asks before he can say anything.

Daryl sighs again. "Nah," he replies, tilting his head up and scratching absently under his chin. "You gonna?"

"Was thinkin' about it."

"Don't let me stop you."

"You're thinking too loud," Rick says, grinning lopsidedly. He opens his eyes and peers at Daryl from the side of them, half-lidded and relaxed. "Can't sleep like that."

"S'your fault," Daryl mutters, rolling his eyes. "Got a lot on my mind thanks to you."

"Wanna talk about it?"

"Not really."

Rick laughs quietly, closing his eyes again. "We should sleep."

"Just like this?" Daryl asks, a thread of humor in his voice.

"I wouldn't mind," Rick says with a shrug.

"Well I would. Ain't natural."

"Lay down then."

"Move," Daryl mutters, shoving at Rick's knees until the man falls to the side, and Daryl pulls his legs up to him and pushes them out along the wall, away from Rick so that he can lay down with his back still to the wall. Rick moves a little away so that Daryl's face isn't pressed up right on his thigh and sighs.

"Better?" he asks.

Daryl grunts, moving one arm up to act as a pillow. "It'll do," he says, and tilts his head to squint up at Rick. "You're seriously not gonna sleep?"

Rick shakes his head. "Probably not."

"You're crazy," Daryl mutters, shifting his weight on the floor and hissing in discomfort until he seems to find a way to lie down that suits him. He sighs and closes his eyes again, his hair tucked back from his face, his expression slowly smoothing out into something more relaxed. Rick doesn't stare because he knows Daryl will feel him doing it, but he keeps the other man in his periphery and fixes his gaze on some knot in the laminate on the opposite wall.

 

 

_Tomorrow. It's going to happen tomorrow._

"Fuck, fuck…."

They're everywhere, they're fucking _everywhere_. Rick darts around the corner, his knife in one hand, pistol loaded and ready in the other. There's a pack of them ahead but a fire escape just past one of them. It turns and hisses, grabbing at his clothes and he leaps for the fire escape, just barely holding on by wrapping his knife-wielding arm around the side of it.

There's a hand grabbing his ankle and he kicks at it and bashes the face of the wretched thing in. It collapses with another snarl and Rick puts his knife between his teeth and starts to climb. He doesn't have the ammo or the luxury of making noise, so his pistol slides back into the holster at his side and he takes his knife in hand again, climbing as quickly as he can.

He makes it to the second floor, pulling himself up onto the little walkway. Through the grating that makes up the floor he can see the pack has gathered by the steps. They haven't figured out how to climb yet. He hopes they don't.

His heart is hammering in his chest and the air is harsh with sunlight, and slides across his skin like a physical thing. He lifts his hand to his forehead and squints upwards to see how high up the thing will go. If he can make it to the roof he'll have a chance at recovering, or maybe making it back down through the building itself.

There are no walkers on the fire escape, so he turns and hurries up it until he reaches the top and jumps over the slightly raised wall that makes up the edge of the roof.

There is a single walker on the top of the roof and it lunges for him. Rick grabs it by the coat and spins it around, sending it flying over the edge of the roof, and winces when he hears the tell-tale _splat_ below. The roof is large and open, a little glass conservatory in one corner, and a raised section with a door that leads to the stairwell just beyond that. There are pipes running about a foot off the ground, bright and red, and a small collection of gardening tools next to the glass conservatory.

He walks over, out of curiosity more than anything else, and nudges the pile with the toe of his boot. There's nothing sharp enough to be useful in the little collection, and anything that might have been growing in the greenhouse has long since turned sour if the smell is any indication, so he moves away with a small huff. He sheathes his knife and sticks it in his belt at the back.

Momentarily out of the woods, he allows himself a deep breath, and stands still and closes his eyes. There's a breeze up here, free from the tight confines of the world below, and without the immediate sight of his flesh he can hear the walkers starting to disperse.

"Your timin' sucks," he mutters, shaking his head hard enough that his hair, soaked with sweat, plasters across his face and down his neck. He feels like a dog running through rain.

_Time is arbitrary. A day to you is a lifetime to a fly._

Rick licks his lips and sucks in a deep breath. He's dying for water. "I'm a fly?"

_More like a cockroach._

Rick turns and sees Death standing by the door to the stairwell, that familiar grin on the skull's face. Rick laughs. The air hasn't turned cold so he knows he's dreaming. Or maybe the sun is just too damn hot. "Is War here?" he asks.

Death's head tilts. _Do you feel him here?_

"Should I?"

_I don't think you'll have a choice._

Rick frowns. "So if I doubt…"

_Doubt is human. Instinct is animal. Knowledge is divine. You're smart, Rick, and you're willing to do what it takes to make sure we never meet as shepherd and flock. That's why I chose you. Don't cheapen my attention by implying either of us don't know what we're doing._

"But I _don't_ know what I'm doing," Rick says with a sigh. "I'm just…you said Atlanta. So I'm going to Atlanta. If I'm…" He pauses and looks around. This _has_ to be a dream, because he's alone. He doesn't remember getting here. Where is Daryl? "This is a dream, right? Or a vision?"

Death reaches out to him, bony fingertips landing lightly on Rick's cheek, before the skull bobs in another nod.

 _You're not really here,_ Death says. _And neither am I._

 

 

Rick wakes with a start, gasping quietly and shoving himself away from the wall. He had fallen asleep upright, still staring at that knot of wood. His lungs feel static-filled and his head is heavy as he pushes himself to his feet and away from the little corner of the trailer.

Daryl is still asleep, and Carl, and Lori as far as he can tell. The sky is still almost black, teases of brighter colors on the horizon when he looks outside. As quietly as he can, he opens the door and steps into the frigid air. His breath mists almost immediately and he shivers and goes to the truck bed.

Shane is still there, and nods at Rick when he approaches. "More borin' than a stakeout," he comments, and Rick doesn't reply with how their stakeouts used to end, with too much ice cream and laughter.

"I wanna take one of the rifles," he says, "and another pistol. And some food. I'll aim to be back by nightfall."

"Got a phone with juice?" Shane asks, climbing down from the truck, and Rick winces at the creaking sound it makes. He shakes his head. "Shit, what did you use to call Lori with before?"

"Daryl's phone."

Shane lifts his eyes to the trailer, then looks back to Rick with an unimpressed expression. "What, he jerkin' off or something? Where is he?"

"Asleep," Rick says. "He's not coming with me."

Both of Shane's eyebrows go up. " _He_ know that?" he asks, and Rick can't fight a smile that even after all this time and all this distance his friend still knows him so well. He shakes his head and holds his hand out for the rifle Shane hands him, and takes one of the backpacks, emptying it out and stuffing enough food for two days into it before he slings it across his shoulders, the rifle tied with loose straps at his side. Shane also hands him a box of ammo for the gun and a second knife, just in case.

Shane blows out a breath, looking Rick up and down slowly. "I don't like the idea of you goin' in alone, man," he says.

"Someone needs to stay behind with Merle," Rick replies with a shrug. "And you don't want to bring everyone with me. You _shouldn't_ want to bring everyone with me. I'll be okay."

"But what if you're not?"

"I _will_ be." Rick reaches out and rests his hand just below Shane's shoulder, on his arm, squeezing once. Shane looks like he's seconds away from cuffing Rick to the damn truck to stop him from leaving. But at the same time, things would be so much simpler with Rick out of the way. They both know that. "If I'm not back by nightfall, _leave_. It's not safe this close to the city."

Shane nods, biting on his tongue before he sighs. "I'll…see you in the next life, brother."

Rick smiles, and moves his hand up to the back of Shane's neck to pull him into a hug. The gun clacks when Shane's arm wraps around him, hugging him tightly, and Rick closes his eyes and tries to commit the memory of Shane's warmth and his hug, tries to burn it into the backs of his eyelids, right next to the sound of Carl's laughter and the sweet smile Lori used to give him when he made terrible jokes. When they let go, Shane's eyes are wet and Rick is sure he doesn't look much better.

"I'll be back soon," he promises, and then turns to leave before he can be convinced to stay, or to wait for Daryl to wake up. Each step feels like a mile, but he forces himself to continue onward, down the little path and then down the road, and then out of the park. One foot in front of the other, like drill marches.

The rhythm comes easily even though it's been years since Rick was in the academy. The air is chilly and crisp and feels like breathing minty smoke when he inhales, and burns his nose when he exhales. His backpack is a light weight on his shoulders, his gun a little weird afterthought that makes him want to lean left.

He keeps his eyes and ears open for any walkers or other people. There are a few strays that he dispatches with his knife, quickly and easily, but for the most part he goes on his trek unmolested by dead or living. At one point a dog trots by his side, nosing his hand for food, its leather collar muddy and ripped in places. He keeps that companion for just long enough to remove the collar from its neck until it realizes he has no food and leaves his side.

He wasn't sure how far they stopped outside of Atlanta, having slept for the drive and not noticing any signs when Daryl doubled back to the trailer park, but the sun is almost a foot above the tree line before he realizes that they must have been farther away than he thought.

It's the first time Rick has been truly alone in as long as he can remember. Before this there was the facility, and yes, he had his cell to himself, but he had neighbors who were loud and reminded him constantly that he was never truly alone. And, on top of that, he had Death as his constant companion. Before the facility, he'd had his family and his friends, the other policemen in his department, Carl's friends' parents and his teachers. Lori was usually home when he was, a bright mark in his day when he'd come home. He wonders how long it took before she moved onto Shane once he was sentenced to the facility. Maybe before that. Maybe when he was comatose, when they'd thought he would never wake up. Maybe before _that_.

He shakes his head and sighs. It hardly matters anymore. They're together and Rick is happy for them – besides, it's not like his own heart hasn't strayed elsewhere as well. In such close proximity there was bound to be a connection between anyone he shared space with for any length of time, but even still he can't deny that he feels an especially close bond and kinship with Daryl.

He stops at the crest of a hill, hands on his hips and catching his breath as he gazes out across the little valley he sees before him. He can see a highway, and bridges, and in the distance, some of the great shining skyscrapers that make up the Atlanta horizon. He smiles.

It will be a long walk, he can tell that. "Daryl's gonna be so pissed," he mutters, wiping his hand over his face and scratching at the back of his neck, before he starts to walk again. He'd _promised_ that he wouldn't go to Atlanta without Daryl, but if things go south he can't in good conscience put the man in danger like that.

And if he should die, Daryl doesn't need to see that. He doesn't need to bear witness to that.

A soft whicker catches Rick's attention and he looks to his left. There's a field by the side of the road, occupied by a single horse. Its ears are cocked towards him, tail flicking lazily back and forth like a dog wagging its tail. Rick smiles and walks over to it, one hand outstretched. The horse snorts and walks over to him, head low and neck relaxed, and pushes its muzzle against his hand.

The horse used to be white, Rick is sure. Its coat is caked in mud and grass stains and it looks like it hasn't had a bath in a while. The skin around its muzzle is almost pink, the eyes a pretty and intelligent blue as it winks at him.

Rick's smile widens and he rubs his other hand up and down the horse's face, between its eyes, and scratching under the tuft of mane hanging down its forehead. "Aren't you gorgeous," he says, grinning when the horse lips at his thumb and snorts into his hand.

He bites his lip and looks back towards the city scape. It's been a long time since he's ridden, but he's sure he can remember enough of the basics to try again. He can see a little stable in the corner of the field. There's probably at least a saddle and bridle in there.

Looking around to make sure he's not being watched, Rick climbs over the fence, landing in the soft grass on the other side with a grunt. The horse gives another quiet whickering sound, nudging its nose against his backpack and Rick grins, reaching out to pet its face again.

"Come on," he says, walking towards the stable. He can hear the soft steps of the horse following him. The door to the stable is open and it looks like the only door to a smaller stall has been kicked down from the inside. Rick stops and raises an eyebrow at the horse, which winks right back at him. "Alright, troublemaker."

There is a wall lined with shelves of brushes and harnesses and all the other things that a person might own when they own a horse. Rick looks over them quickly, not too interested in the various grooming implements (although the horse is in desperate need of a bath). In the back of the stable is a saddle rack with a saddle slung over it. It's big and broad, thickly padded in the western style, and Rick smiles.

He looks back over at the horse who has managed to find a bag of feed and seems intent on trying to get into it, and Rick turns back and hefts the saddle up into his arms. He walks over and the horse's ear cocks towards him but otherwise it doesn't seem particularly interested in whatever he's doing.

He hoists the saddle up onto the animal's back with a grunt. It gives a little whinny of protest but otherwise doesn't move, and Rick is immediately grateful that apparently, he's managed to find the one horse in all of Georgia that doesn't bolt if it's not attached to the wall.

The horse – a male horse, Rick can see now – snorts at him and turns his head to blink at Rick. "Don't look at me like that," Rick says, and the horse shakes his mane out and flicks his tail at Rick's thigh. "I'll take it off as soon as I can, alright?"

He goes over to the other side and grabs the girth strap, hoisting one side of the saddle up so that he can attach and tighten it until he's sure it won't slide off the animal. He can't find a bridle for the life of him but he sees one of the bit-less harnesses hanging on the open stable door and grabs it. There's a rope that attaches by a clip to one side of the harness and there's a ring on the other side for it to attach there, but no second clip at the other end of the rope.

His mouth twists and he looks around again. There are other ropes, and straps made of leather, and he sees a second harness with a similar setup hung on the wall. He unhooks the rope from that one and clips it to the other side of the halter and ties the two ropes together halfway down. It's long and ugly but it'll do the trick of acting like reins. He just hopes the horse is decent enough with amateurs to understand what he's trying to do when he guides the animal.

He holds the harness up for the horse to look at it. It snorts and blinks at him, like it too is telling Rick how much of a jackass he's going to look like with that setup. Rick grins and shakes it, before he walks back over to the animal and throws the mess of makeshift reins over its head so the knot rests at the pommel of the saddle.

The halter goes on easily since he doesn't have to persuade the animal to take a bit, and he tucks the horse's ears in front of the last strap and pulls on its fringe of mane so that it's not struck in the strap that goes across its forehead. The horse shakes his mane again and flicks his tail.

"There, you look fine," Rick says, patting the horse's cheek. "Fit for a king."

He gently tugs on the loose part of the reins hanging on either side of the horse's neck and leads it over to the mounting block that's right outside of the stable door. He climbs onto it and gathers the reins up, shoves his boot in the stirrup closest to him and swings his other leg over quickly, paranoid that he didn't tighten the saddle enough and he'll go sliding off the other side.

The horse takes his weight with a quiet nicker, ears cocked back to listen to him moving around and getting comfortable. Rick winces when the gun tugs awkwardly, unable to stay upright around the curve of the horse's body. He reaches back to undo the strap and lets the gun rest across his lap instead.

"Alright…" he mutters, and digs his heels into the horse's flanks. His ears prick forward and he starts to walk, head low and relaxed as Rick guides him out into the field. Rick takes a moment, while the space is open and they're relatively safe, to tug the reins this way and that and test the animal's responsiveness to his makeshift bridle. It seems to work well enough and the animal must have had a good trainer because it responds well to each of Rick's commands and seems perfectly content with an unskilled rider on its back. Maybe it was, in a previous life, one of the horses that little kids would ride on at fairs, or the owner had children or nieces and nephews that would get to ride.

Satisfied, he walks the horse over to the fence, where there's a gate leading to another field that has an opening where there used to be a metal gate for cars, but it stands open and he can get out that way. He leans down, carefully balancing the rifle, and unlatches the gate leading to that field before he guides the horse outside.

He can feel the animal vibrating with energy, powerful and strong under his body. He hasn't ridden in a long time but when he used to he was fairly decent at it. After another few moments of walking, when he feels more confident, he kicks the horse up to a trot, and then a canter. The gait is easy and smooth, like sitting in a rocking chair. On the side of the road he'd been walking on there's a grass verge and he keeps the horse to that as much as he can so that the animal doesn't make too much noise and the ground isn't so harsh on its legs.

A flash of movement on the road catches his attention and he turns his head. There's a rider next to him, its horse ghostly pale and translucent, the rider's cloak stretching out far behind them both like they're painting the land behind them as the night sky. The rider's head turns and Rick smiles when he sees the grinning skull looking at him.

Death's horse makes no sound as it canters next to Rick's. Rick's mount bucks his head, whinnying softly, one ear cocked towards the other rider as though he, too, can sense their presence. Rick reaches forward to stroke a soothing hand down the animal's neck. His coat is sweaty and matted under Rick's palm.

"It's alright," he murmurs to the animal. "Now is not our time."

Death chuckles, the sound echoing like Rick is standing in a great vault, and then disappears between one tree and the next. Rick shivers, biting his lip as warmth returns to the air and he can hear the beats of his horse's hooves on the grass.

They crest another hill and he tugs on the reins to get the horse to stop. It does with a snort, hooves clattering as they suddenly come across a highway. It's a four-lane road, then a divider, street signs giving directions to the ring road around Atlanta and the various highways that go through.

On the other side of the divider there are rows and rows of cars, as far as the eye can see. Rick sucks in a breath, keeping his eyes open for any signs of movement. "I guess the evacuations started," he says to no one in particular, but the horse gives a quiet snort of agreement. Rick turns his head to look towards the city. He can't hear anything – at all. No birdsong, no wildlife. No people or sirens.

He gives the reins a twitch and digs his heel in to get the horse to turn, heading towards the city. "This isn't right," he says, squinting at the cars as he passes them. In one he sees a walker throw itself against the car door, hissing and clawing at the glass in an attempt to get to him.

The air grows cold on him again and he turns to look at Death, who has returned, the ghostly horse bearing him at Rick's side. "This doesn't make any sense," Rick tells Death, who turns to look at him with empty sockets, darkness like the void between stars staring at Rick. "It's only been a week – not even a week. This is too fast. Where's the Government? Where are the police, the evacuation teams? Where are all the people panicking?"

The skull turns to look back at the buildings, and then up as though watching an airplane move. Rick looks up too, but sees nothing. He can still hear nothing aside from the steady clop of his horse's hooves against the concrete.

 _This is Pestilence's finest plague,_ Death says after a while. Rick hears a snarling hiss from behind him and turns around to see a walker crawling over the divider, its white eyes on him. He swallows and digs his heels into the horse's flanks to get it to walk a little faster. What he really needs, he thinks, is a sword or something. Something longer and silent. That would be useful.

"If the Government fell so fast, there's nothing," Rick says. "Everyone will die."

 _Not everyone_.

Rick rolls his eyes and looks at Death. "Okay, fine, not _everyone_ ," he says, then reaches up to scratch the back of his neck. Another walker comes into view from the trees, its leg akimbo from being broken, shuffling forward. Rick guides his horse away from it and they walk past it. Then, he swallows. "I hope not everyone," he murmurs, running his hand through his sweaty hair. "You can see the future, right?" he asks.

Death nods, once, and gives a shallow humming sound like wind through a tomb. _I can see all that is, that was, and that will be. Things that can change and things that will not. Yes._

Rick is silent, pressing his lips together, and nods as well.

_You want to ask._

"But I don't want to know."

 _Then I won't tell you._ Death's horse suddenly stops and Rick pulls his to a halt as well, turning it so that he can see the walkers approaching behind them. He can't afford to lose time. The sun is already at its height. _Until next time, Rick._

"Goodbye, Death," Rick says with a respectful nod of his head, and then Death and his horse disappear from sight. The walkers are getting uncomfortably close and so Rick turns his horse again, towards the city, and prompts it onwards. He has his gun across his lap, and pulls out his pistol as well so that it's also ready. He's sure whatever he's about to ride into will be something akin to Hell.

"Here goes nothin'," he mutters, just as the silhouettes of the skyscrapers start to block out the sun.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Rick desperately misses Daryl and Death calls him out on it. Also, Glenn.

Rick lets the horse go once he's on the borders of the city, where the highway starts to merge into streets with stoplights and becomes so filled with cars that there's no real way to expect the animal to navigate it with any ease. There are car doors right up against car doors, some hoods smashed into others' bumpers. Like everyone was trying to get away at once.

Rick sighs, watching the horse trot away, back towards the green fields beyond the highway, and hoists his backpack higher up on his shoulder, his rifle slung on his side once more. He keeps his pistol and his knife out and ready, just in case.

He can hear walkers everywhere. They're quiet, dormant he supposes until they see fresh meat. He walks low to the ground and tries to make sure he has a clear line of sight as he moves, and that nothing is standing around corners or waiting to trip him up between the cars.

He makes it to what looks like a hotel, or what used to be one. There's a little green awning above the door but he can't make out the words that it used to be. The doors are gold-colored and closed. He wraps his hand around one of the handles and tugs experimentally.

It gives with a groan and he curses, slipping inside before any of the walkers on the street can spot him or find him. He tugs the door closed and turns around to look at the inside. With the sun so high the windows light the area well enough, but the electricity still works here and it illuminates a small, comfortable-looking reception area. The chairs are plush and look velveteen, the carpet rich and red. There's a desk on the left-hand wall and a staircase riding the wall up to a half-floor above him.

Rick licks his lips and drags his hand across one of the soft chair arms and lets out a sharp, long whistle, and then sits down in another chair with his back to the corner and waits. If there are any walkers within distance or hearing of him, they'll have been drawn by the sound.

He sighs, resting his elbows on his knees, and folds his hands over the top of his gun so that he can rest his chin on his knuckles. He can't hear any walkers but is determined to wait until he's sure he's in a safe area. Then, he'll go the roof and get a feel for the city and see where it seems like he should go.

He knows…he _knows_ Death told him to go to Atlanta. So, he's here for a reason, he _has_ to be. But he would have thought that being in the city of War would have been more…of a spectacle. That maybe he might have seen the figure wrapped in blood and cold, or heard his dogs braying for flesh, or felt his presence like liquid lightning along his skin.

If he doesn't find a clue today, he _has_ to stay. There's no way he can return to his family until he's sure what needs to be done – no one will follow a crazy person if they don't have a plan, after all. And Rick has no plan. So far blind faith has led him, and he trusts that Death will show him the way, but it's difficult having to _wait_ for that time to come.

"Humans are impatient," he says, letting his eyes close for a moment. He tries to think back on the book of Revelations, tries to remember the appearance of the horsemen and think of any clues that might help him.

He can recall the passage where they appear with ease – how many nights had he spent pacing the floor of his living room, before killing those men, muttering it to himself over and over? How many times had he written it down, or read the words over and over in the Bible when Lori would drag him and Carl to church? How many _times_ had he dreamed them, or heard voices reciting them to him?

He sucks in a sharp breath, rocking back in the chair, and closes his fist and presses it against the side of his head. It hurts, suddenly, like someone has tried to stab him through the skull. There's no one around him, though – nothing but him and his thoughts.

"Fuck," he hisses, and shoves himself to his feet. Enough time should have passed to deem the area clear, and if not he still has his weapons. He pushes the backpack to a more comfortable position from the one it had taken when he'd sat down, and checks the fastenings on the rifle to make sure it's secure, before he heads up the stairs.

He walks up the stairs slowly, unsure what he expects to find. There might be food in this building, there might be squatters trying to wait out the plague. There might be monsters locked in their rooms, scratching at the doors and struggling with the handles.

He walks up the first flight of stairs, and then the second. The air is warm and stagnant on his skin and he pauses for a moment at the second floor, looking down the long hallway with a considering expression. All of the doors are closed, of course.

He walks over to the nearest one and raps his knuckles on it, waiting to hear any telltale groan or hiss, or movement from one of the living. There is nothing, and he looks down the hallway again to make sure that nothing else was drawn towards him by the sound.

He stands back, lifts his foot and kicks just shy of the handle. The door doesn't give, but pain lances up his foot and to his knee nicely. He hisses, steadying himself with a grunt, and winces at the pressure when he puts weight on his foot. He tries again. The door gives a little with a small, splintering crack. He backs up, breathing hard and checking the hallway again.

Then, he turns around, and kicks backwards, slamming his heel against the same spot. The frame of the door splinters with a hollow sound and he grins in triumph when the door swings away from it loosely on its hinges. The edge of the frame is frayed where it used to be next to the handle. He walks into the hotel room and closes it behind him, closing the bracket lock and fixing the chain for good measure.

The hotel room is empty, the bed made and covered in a fine layer of dust, the welcome notepad and remote placed _just so_. When he flicks on the light, it comes on with a hum. The curtains are drawn back, the window framed in a deep red fabric, and the opaque blackout curtains are drawn back as well. He walks over and can look out of the window to see the back alley behind the hotel, complete with dumpsters and the shuffling shadows of a couple of walkers feasting on what he can only assume is a stray racoon or dog.

He hums and turns his gaze upwards to the small amount of light shafting down the alley. It's already turning red, the sun well on its way to setting. His mouth twists as he backs away and closes both the blackout and the red curtains. It's already much later than he'd anticipated and there is definitely no way, even if he left now, that he'd make it back to the trailer park by nightfall.

"This was the plan," he murmurs to himself, shucking off his rucksack onto the bed with a sigh. There's an air conditioning unit under the curtains and he watches it for a second. It's set to 'Off', and he bends down and flicks it onto low air, sighing again in relief when the unit clatters to life and starts pumping cool, fresh air into the room.

"This was the plan," he says again as he starts to shed his clothes, laying them out over the little desk and chair in the corner of the room. He had brought a change of clothes with him but he can wash these out and hopefully recover them enough that he can wear them again. It's not practical to change into something clean every time when water and fresh clothing will soon go scarce.

There's a phone on the desk, too. The little voicemail light is blinking red, and he wonders who might have been the occupant of this room to warrant a voicemail. Maybe it was a wake-up call, come too late, when the resident had already left. Maybe it was the person's mother, or their spouse, wishing them well on their weekend in Atlanta and hoping they come home safely. He wonders if they ever did.

He bites his lip and cocks his head to one side, considering the inoffensive white phone. He could call Shane, or Lori. Let them know he's still alive, that he's staying, that they should go on without him. This was the plan – it had to be the plan. Rick could never bring them into War's city. And Daryl…Daryl would have followed him, if it weren't for Merle. Shane can't defend all of them on his own. Daryl would have stayed. He _had_ to have stayed behind.

He'll be pissed. Rick swallows back the little guilty knot of barbed wire coiled in his throat. If nothing else, he should call to apologize, to explain himself. He hadn't exactly said that he wouldn't leave without Daryl – he had merely whistled. _I love you_. Isn't that the same as goodbye anyway? Better?

But he remembers how young Daryl had sounded, how lost and afraid he must be. He'd been keeping strong for Rick, for appearance's sake, but he must be terrified to his core. And he doesn't like and doesn't trust Shane and Lori. Rick himself had said Shane might be War, in which case he left his beloved friend and follower in the hands of his enemy.

His fists clench in his shirt, knuckles pressed against the back of the chair. He should call them.

He reaches out for the phone and freezes just as it starts to ring. The noise is shrill, deafening in the room. He clenches his fists again, sure it has to be some kind of trick. His mind playing jokes on him again.

He sucks in a breath and reaches out, grabbing the phone. "Hello?" he asks hoarsely.

"Holy shit," comes the reply. He doesn’t know what he expected to hear, but the voice of a young adult, breathless and almost _giddy_ , hadn't been it. Maybe War's booming voice, Famine's cackle, Pestilence's hiss. Maybe screaming. "I _knew_ I saw someone coming into the hotel." There's a pause on the other side, shuffling like someone is shifting their positions. "Hey, guys, I found the guy!" comes a yell, away from the phone like he's calling for others. "The fuck you doin' here, man? Downtown's, like, the _worst_ place to be right now."

"You're here," Rick replies. "I assume."

The voice laughs. "Touché, cowboy."

"Who are you?" Rick asks. "How did you call this number?"

"Google still exists, man, and it ain't hard to just keep dialing room numbers," the voice says in reply, and Rick can hear the man rolling his eyes. "But you didn't answer my question. Why are you here?"

"I'm lookin' for someone," Rick says.

"Aren't we all."

"What's your name?"

There's a pause on the other end of the line. "I, uh, what's yours?"

"Rick. Grimes."

"Mine's Glenn," comes the voice. "I got a group, Rick. People need to stick together nowadays – at least the living ones. We know where you are. We can come to you."

"No," Rick says quickly, shaking his head even though he knows the man can't see. "I'm better off on my own. Thank you, Glenn. Please don't come looking for me." He hangs up before Glenn can reply, rubbing his hands over his face and blowing out a harsh breath. He shakes his head again. "This was part of the plan," he says. He can't afford to make more connections now, and he _definitely_ can't allow people to come to him that he's never met. The horsemen are sneaky like that – they'll try to get close to him, try and worm their way to his side until he doesn't feel the knife slipping between his ribs. He can't afford to bring more people to him. They could find out about Shane and Lori and Carl, or Daryl. They could _hurt his people_.

"You pick your people," Rick mutters, pacing to the window, then back. He shakes his head and scratches at the back of his neck. It still stings where he dug into it before. "You pick your people. They're _my_ people."

He checks the locks on the door, just in case. Then he goes back to the phone. There's a helpful little post-it note, handwritten and faded, telling him to dial '9' to call outside of the hotel. He types in Shane's number and waits.

Shane picks up on the fifth ring. "That you, brother?" There's a hum in the background that sounds like he's driving. Rick can't help but smile, sadly, looking down at his socked feet. He should have known Shane wouldn't have waited until nightfall to move on.

"Shane," he says warmly. "I'm in a hotel in Atlanta. I'm…probably going to be here for a while."

"Yeah, I figured," Shane says. "I know you, Rick. Same as always." There's a pause on the other end of the line. Lori and Carl must be sleeping; he can't hear their voices. "We're gonna keep headin' South. See if we can find something a little more remote and permanent. If you call me again when you're headed out, I'll let you know where we are."

"Thank you," Rick replies. He licks his lips and scratches the back of his neck again. "Daryl and Merle comin' with ya?"

Shane hums. "Man…that boy was pissed as Hell when he realized you went on without him," he says. Rick huffs a small, guilty laugh. He can imagine. "Okay, man, look, I gotta ask…just because'a everythin' that's been goin' on and…are you guys, like…?"

He lets the sentence hang there, hoping Rick will pick up the loose end. Rick lets the silence grow on, and on, staring at the red curtains and listening to the sound of Shane's breathing.

"Goodbye, Shane," he says after a moment. "Please tell Daryl I'm sorry. I'll call you in the morning."

"Rick! C'mon, brother, I didn't mean it like -." But Rick hangs up, cutting him off. Then he yanks out the cord from the back of the phone, ensuring that it won't ring again. He can't afford to have his psyche playing tricks on him. This way he knows, if it rings again, it's fake.

He isn't offended by Shane's question. This is the South, after all, and Shane and Rick have known each other their entire lives. Rick knows he never gave any indication that he's attracted to men. He isn't sure Shane would treat him differently, but that's beside the point.

Truthfully, he's not sure what he would call his love for Daryl. It burns just as brightly as his love for Lori used to. Thinking of them curled up together for warmth, or fighting side by side against the legions of walkers around them, or sitting quietly together at a dinner table eating cold soup – all of these things fill him with the same warm feeling, like his very soul is content with Daryl's proximity. Right now, he aches, and there are shards of glass under his skin, and hooks in his mouth telling him to go back, but he must be strong. He must be able to survive on his own – for months he has been fed, walked, and sheltered like a farm animal. Now he must be wild, no more a pet but a predator like Daryl is.

He has to be strong, and then his reward will be that man, if Daryl will have him back after what he's done.

Morose now, melancholy down to his bones, Rick finishes stripping off his clothes and fills the sink in the en-suite bathroom. He squirts a little of the complimentary body wash in the water and swishes it around until it lathers up and dumps his clothes inside. Then, he turns the shower on and steps under. Running water is a sudden and sweet feeling, warm and beating down on his sore shoulders and neck. He sighs, slicking shampoo through his hair until it finally feels clean again, and he sheds the makeshift bandage from his hand and throws it in the trash. His hand, at least, has stopped bleeding and no longer aches when he curls his fingers.

He showers quickly and keeps the water running to rinse out his clothes before he hangs them over the shower rail and lets the sink drain. He towels off briskly, delighting in the way the scratchy towels pink up his skin and leave him feeling overly warm in the steamy room.

The hotel room is cold in comparison when he steps back out, and he shivers and bites his lip, checking the locks one more time. For good measure, he takes the desk chair and wedges it up under the off-kilter doorknob as well, just to be safe. Then, he slides under the dusty covers. The mattress is hard and the pillows are too squishy, but it feels almost luxurious against his skin.

He rolls onto his side, abruptly aware of just how much _space_ is in his bed. In the facility, the cots had enough room for him and _maybe_ a child if they were to sleep squished together on the thing. Before then he had his hospital bed with its little grey pieces of plastic keeping him penned in, and then before that he had slept with Lori by his side.

He looks out across the vast expanse of that empty space, and shifts to tuck one arm under his pillow, blowing out a harsh sigh through his nose. Even with the noise of the walkers outside, the whole place is oppressively quiet, like a tomb. He misses the sound of Daryl's breathing when he's asleep. He misses the creaks and groans of his house. He even misses Eddie's moaning at night.

It's so damn quiet.

His skin starts to crawl after a moment, jittery. The air is cold but that's just because there's an air conditioner running. There's nowhere for Death to sit, and Rick can see in the reflection of the mirror that lets him see the door that Death isn't there either. So, he's standing behind Rick, if he's here at all. Rick doesn't want to roll over to see.

He closes his eyes and bites his lip, reaching out to feel the cool sheets where they lay, flat and barren, on the other side of the bed. He remembers the warmth of Daryl against him when they'd sat on the back of the truck. The temperature had been about the same. He imagines that warmth now, under his hand – that maybe if he opened his eyes he would see Daryl there, his eyes closed and his face relaxed, hair splayed out around his head.

 _Your obsession with your disciple is concerning_.

Rick licks his lips and opens his eyes. The bed is just as empty as when he'd last looked. "I'm allowed," he replies. "You said I was allowed him."

 _I promised not to take him away from you_ , Death says, _but you're not with him now. Why?_

"It's too dangerous out here," Rick whispers. "What if I lose him?"

_What if you lose him anyway?_

"Why are you here?" Rick demands, and finally turns onto his back. Death isn't there, the familiar grin of the skull is nowhere in the darkness. Rick shoves himself upright and looks around desperately, but there's no light to see by. He feels as blind and helpless as a newborn. "Unless you're here to help me, I'd rather be alone."

A cool wind blows through the room. It's probably the air conditioning. Is it the kind that moves? Rick didn't check. Suddenly the humming dies as the unit reaches the temperature it must default to when it's turned on and Rick shivers, biting his lower lip and fighting the urge to turn on the light. He's safe. He's _safe_. What he wouldn't give to see the yellow nightlights of the facility or hear something familiar, like Eddie's shrieks or Daryl's quiet, huffed laughter. Or Shane's off-key singing or Carl's voice or Lori's quiet hum.

 _You will find War,_ Death says, the prophetic words landing heavy on Rick's shoulders, settling behind his eyes like a backwards mask. He feels like he loses the ability to look into his own head. _Sleep, Rick._ Bony fingers brush against his jaw and Rick sucks in a breath, closing his eyes. _Everything will be clearer tomorrow_.

"Do you promise?" Rick asks. He looks up and thinks he might be able to make out the ghostly imprint of Death's face, grinning down at him from where Death is standing by the bed. "I…I didn't want to know before. But I want to know now. Will I see my family alive again?"

Death chuckles, and brushes Rick's cheek again, then his nose, before sweeping over his forehead. _Sleep, Rick_ , Death says, and at once Rick feels a corpse-like lethargy overtake him, like he's been chilled to the core. He lays back down without protest, his breathing slow and even, eyelids heavy and unable to stay open.

His last thought before sleep claims him is that, like he did with Daryl, Death leaves him without actually answering his question. His dreams that night are wracked with visions of his family getting torn apart in front of his eyes – Carl being shot, Shane with a gaping wound in his chest, Lori consumed and ripped to shreds.

Still, Death forces him to sleep, and he doesn't wake until the morning.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday! Rick's kind of losing his mind :)

The microwave in the hotel room still works, and so does the coffee maker. Rick drinks the bitter brew quickly and tells himself to be grateful because it's probably the last time he'll ever have coffee again. His clothes have almost completely dried and he dons them, glad that they don't smell. He eats a plastic cup of noodles for breakfast and then gathers the rest of his things up, ready to move.

The door and chair are undisturbed and he carefully moves them, unlocking the locks and knocking on the inside of the door six times before he cautiously opens it. Part of him is half expecting the man and his group to be waiting for him at the end of the hallway, but he sees no one, living or dead, when he exits the room.

He climbs the stairs up to the roof and shoves his shoulder against it, pushing out into the open air. There's a breeze up here, carrying the stench of sewers and decay to his nose and he breathes it in deeply.

He looks around, hands on his hips as he gazes around for a clue or some other building that might look like the kind of place War would hole up in. Of course, by his nature, War is a brash and bold individual. He has flashy armor and braying dogs. He wouldn't settle for something muted and non-descript. His banner would fly high and draw attention, daring Rick to come closer, luring in the warriors to his cause.

He doesn't see anything that stands out, and huffs a disappointed breath. Death had _told_ him he'd find War. Death has no reason to lie – of course he has no reason to lie. Death is the ultimate, the end and the beginning, the inescapable fate. Man might live free of Disease, or Famine, or War, but Death is omnipresent, omnipotent. If Rick keeps hunting, keeps searching, he's sure he will find the others. Or they will find him.

His attention is drawn by a muted snarling sound. He turns and spies a walker, reaching for him blindly. It looks like it was literally cut in half, its legs lying about three feet from the rest of its body. Rick's mouth twists and he steps over to it, driving his knife into its skull to make it go silent. Next to its torso is a sniper rifle and he cocks his head to one side, picking it up.

"Hello, gorgeous," he says, pulling the lever back to check the chamber. It's loaded. The scope is cracked but when Rick pulls the gun up to his shoulder and squints through it, he can still see clearly enough. "And what were you doing up here with this, hmm?" he asks of the walker, which predictably doesn't reply.

He stands, holding the sniper rifle at his side. It won't do much for close combat and damn sure isn't useful for anything _other_ than sitting on a roof and firing shots, but it's a weapon. A club if nothing else.

He clicks his tongue absently, walking over to the other corner of the roof. There are some empty birdcages here and a litter of feathers and Rick nudges them with a grimace, before looking up and around again. He doesn't see _anything_ of note, and isn't that the damnedest thing? What kind of horseman doesn't want to put on a Goddamn show?

Huffing a tired breath, he squares his shoulders and turns back around towards the door leading to the stairwell. Maybe a few blocks into the city he'll get a new angle and be able to see something else. It's not like he doesn't have time now.

He skids to a halt and lets out a low curse when a walker shambles through the open doorway, moaning and hissing at him. The walker is closely followed by three more, moving towards him more quickly than he can react to. He can't get around them fast enough to separate them and take care of them quietly.

He throws the sniper to his other hand and grabs his Python, squaring up and aiming for the walkers. One, two, three, four. Loud cracks, gunfire, the familiar recoil of his weapon as it sings in his hand. Rick smiles and imagines the color of it as the blade on a scythe.

The sound will draw more. With a curse, Rick searches the bodies quickly for anything of use and finds nothing except a knife one of the walkers had embedded in its back. He yanks that out and pockets it quickly, then holsters his pistol and rushes towards the stairwell.

He can hear more of the walkers below, groaning and growling. Cursing again he darts down the first hallway he gets to. There's a walker on the other side of the hallway and he sheaths his knife in its forehead before continuing on to the next flight of stairs.

"Where the Hell did y'all come from?" he mutters, knifing another walker and pulling his gun back out to shoot at a third as it lunges for him. Another walker throws itself against Rick and he grabs it by the tattered shirt and swings his body around, launching it over the banister. He winces at the splat, and then turns tail and runs down the rest of the stairs.

He thinks he can hear the barking of dogs, the clink of their leashes as they pull and snap. He wants to laugh but doesn't waste the breath. _War_. Of course, War _would_ send a horde in to be rid of him. "Coward."

He throws himself through a side-door leading to the alleyway where his room overlooked. There are a couple of walkers in the alley and they turn to him as though surprised he made it out. He jams his extra knife into one of their heads and as it falls the blade gets yanked out of his hand. He slams the butt of the sniper against another and bashes its head in when it falls. He has just enough time to yank out the knife from the first walker and slam it into the third one's head before it's on him. Its nails leave little red lines on his arms but don't break skin.

"Fuck," he whispers, curling up and ducking behind one of the dumpsters when he hears more shuffling around beyond the alley. They won't be drawn in if he keeps quiet and still. He closes his eyes and sucks in a deep, steady breath, willing his heart to slow down as he rests the back of his head against the cool, damp bricks that make up the hotel side.

The whole place stinks of garbage and death and it's hard to breathe in the air but Rick forces himself to. It'll be a smell he has to get used to, now.

He can hear a lot of them moving around. If they weren't on the street before, they'll have likely been drawn by the sound of gunshots. That, and maybe the living will flock towards him now. Maybe Glenn and his group, whoever the Hell they are.

He clenches his jaw and carefully pushes up against the wall, looking over the dumpster to see if there are any walkers within his immediate line of sight. One shuffles just past the entryway and out of sight, not looking towards him, and Rick straightens to his full height and starts edging carefully towards the entrance of the alleyway.

The hotel was on a street corner, a crossroads, and he's behind the building now. A few feet to the right is where the crossroads are, the option in front dipping down and heading into the city proper, another headed back to the highway, a third going towards what he assumes is the rest of this city cluster on the edge of Atlanta. He should have brought a Goddamn map or something.

He closes his eyes and tries to think. He feels like he can remember seeing a gas station a little way back. It might have maps, but that's too far on foot and there's no guarantee that when he comes back he'll be able to make it through. The only option is forward.

_The only option is forward._

Rick takes in a deep breath and steps out onto the street. There are a couple of walkers dotted around, moving away from him or not looking his way, and he steps out into the sunlight. It's pleasantly warm on his face and shoulders and he sighs, walking out into the middle of the crossroads so that he can get a better look at what direction he should be headed in.

He climbs up onto the hood and then the roof of a car that's sitting in the middle of the street. One of the front wheels has been smashed and sits completely off kilter, the vehicle's nose diving into the street. The car creaks as he steps onto it and a walker near him groans, turning towards him with a snarl. He ignores it for now, standing in a way that it can't grab for him.

He lifts his hand to shield his eyes and looks East. There Atlanta lays, sprawled out in front of him like a massive, slumbering beast. The skyscrapers cast shadows towards him but don't touch him, and he can see the gleam of the sun through the windows that aren't tinted.

The street dips downward and Rick looks that way. It's shadowy in comparison, the sun not yet high enough to reach over the building roofs. His eyes narrow as he sees something moving between the buildings at the end of the road. It's not a walker, but moves on four legs, swift and silent as a shadow. It's too small to be a horse, and jet black. It pauses in the middle of the road and looks at him, tail swishing from side to side.

Rick would call it a dog, but he's sure no breed of dog looks like that. The thing's jaw is square and too large, its eyes a dark, shiny red. Its paws are too large like a puppy still growing into its body but already the animal would stand at Rick's hip.

It's one of Wars dogs. He's sure of it.

He licks his lips and jumps down from the car, careful to avoid any walkers that come at him, and hurries towards the animal. This thing will lead him to War, he's sure.

Just as he steps away from the light of the crossroads the dog barks, snarling loudly at him. Rick can hear it howling in his ears and he stops, hissing, flattening his hands over his ears to silence the sound. He's not completely convinced that it's not in his head. The dog paces back and forth, dancing between the lines on the street, barking and braying like a coyote in a sheep pen.

"Shut up," Rick hisses, looking around him. The walkers are coming at him now, they must hear the barking too. But that doesn't mean it's not in Rick's head anyway. " _Fuck_." He pulls his gun out and fires at the dog and it whines, slinking away. He's not sure he hit it. It probably doesn't matter. The gun shot has definitely drawn walkers now. He darts down the road towards where the dog was standing and swings left, one hand reaching out to catch a telephone pole to help him get to his feet faster.

He skids to a halt when he sees what can only be described as a herd of walkers. It looks like there was a car crash here, there's a truck slammed into the side of the building and leaking gasoline. There are at least four cars that he can see in various stages of wreckage around it. One of them slid through the mess and crashed into an ATM on the side of the street. There's a body between the car and the building wall, the woman there hissing and clawing in his direction like she can fight herself free.

The walkers behind him emerge into the light and Rick flinches back, trapped on two sides. War's dog led him right into it. "Fuck," he hisses, and starts heading back, to the right instead. He moves slowly, tired already and feeling lightheaded from the lack of sleep and food. He has to stay _focused_.

The situation feels so eerily similar. They're everywhere, they're fucking _everywhere_. He remembers his dream, a strange deja vu coming over him as he looks around at the buildings for any way to escape. There must be a fire escape, or somewhere for him to go. They're gaining speed behind him and, cursing under his breath, he starts to run.

There's another crossroads up ahead, the lights blinking red to indicate people stop and look before driving onwards. Rick darts around the corner, the sniper ready to use as a club, his pistol in his other hand even though he knows there's only one bullet left.

He keeps moving, trying not to draw attention to himself even as the pack of walkers gains speed and grows louder. The stink of gasoline where they're soaked through follows him, the wind driving their scent towards him.

There! A fire escape. He holsters his gun and takes a running jump at the little black gated area around the base of the steps. With the sniper in his hand it's difficult but he manages to hook his arm over the top of the fence, boots scraping against the slick metal in an attempt to climb over. He manages to get one leg up and over, then the other, and drops to the ground just in time to be slammed back as the dead reach him. Their hands jut through the bars of the little gate, clawing at his clothes and his bag and anything else they can reach.

There's a hand grabbing his arm and he shoves at it, before he turns to the ladder and starts to haul himself up it. It's slow going with the things clawing at his ankles and one of his arms practically useless, holding the gun, but he forces himself up.

He keeps climbing until he reaches the second floor, pulling himself up onto the little walkway. Through the grating that makes up the floor he can see them still clawing at the gate, throwing themselves over each other in an attempt to reach him. They haven't figured out how to climb yet. He hopes they don't.

"This is…" He licks his lips, scratching at the back of his neck. "This is really fucking familiar."

His heart is hammering in his chest and the air is harsh with sunlight, and slides across his skin like a physical thing. He lifts his hand to his forehead and squints upwards to see how high up the thing will go. If he can make it to the roof he'll have a chance at recovering, or maybe making it back down through the building itself. He climbs up the rest of the way, remembering in his dream that there was a walker on this roof as well and that it might have been drawn by the sound of its brethren.

There isn't one. The breeze that touches him once he's on the roof is cool and refreshing. He's on an office building now, he would guess. Or maybe a revamped stack of apartments. It's not someone's home. And this isn't the roof from his dream – he doesn't see the greenhouse, or the pipes. It's a flat piece of concrete, not even any walls.

He knows he's not any closer to the center of the city but the skyscrapers seem closer, now, looming up above him like giant judgmental monuments to man's former glory. They're shining brilliantly in the light and the concrete beneath him is starting to radiate that heat.

He almost expects Death to come to him, but this isn't like the vision he had before. He inches up to the edge of the building and looks over. The walkers are still thickly congregated around the base of the fire escape, and aside from going down _through_ the building there doesn't seem to be any other way down. Mouth twisting in displeasure, Rick moves away until he's sitting safely in the middle of the roof, with as much distance and open space as he can put between him and everything else.

He sits down with a sigh, heels against the ground, knees up so he can rest his elbows against them, and runs his hands through his hair. "Damn," he whispers, shaking his head. He wishes someone was here with him, but that just wasn't a possibility when he left. There's no way he and someone else could have gotten to the fire escape and up to the roof safely. He'd have lost someone, or gotten bitten himself.

He closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath, setting the sniper rifle next to him on the ground. Then he removes the backpack from his shoulders and lays it down on his other side. Inside there's a pudding cup and he opens it, grinning when he sees that Shane gave him butterscotch. He tugs the lid off and licks it clean before throwing it to one side and raising the cup to his mouth, using his tongue to lick out what he can before he has to use his fingers.

He imagines Daryl joining him, his shadow falling across Rick in a brief reprieve from the heat of the sun, before he sits down with his legs bent so that his knee is underneath Rick's, the top of his thigh pressed against the bottom of Rick's, their shoulders brushing, fingers intertwined. Daryl would probably be able to spot shapes in the clouds or listen for birds and be able to name each and every one. He seems like that kind of guy.

He sighs, digging into the pudding cup with his finger when his tongue is no longer able to reach, his stomach hollow and aching with longing. It's been so long since he had to face the idea of losing someone – at least on the level where he was allowed to miss them. Daryl had been his near-constant companion for months, and before that Rick had never truly been alone.

He should have brought a phone. That way, at least, he could call his family and hear their voices. He could explain to Daryl why he'd left. He could do something to calm this aching _emptiness_ in his chest that is calling for his family, for his mate, for his best friend at the end of the world.

Rick sighs, tossing the pudding cup away once it's empty, and wipes the back of his wrist across his eyes when he realizes that they had started to water. "Get it together, Grimes," he mutters, doing his best 'Shane' voice and immediately feeling worse for it when that pang of longing and sadness only sharpens. Not even forty-eight hours and he's ready to come home running, tail tucked and begging for his family. He's grown soft.

He shoves himself to his feet, determined to keep moving even though he still has no idea where or for what. He walks over to the edge of the roof and sees that the walkers have mostly started to disperse without the promise of his warm flesh to sate their hunger.

Still, fire escapes are loud and creaky. He'll probably draw more attention to himself than he wants if he tries to climb down all the way. Nodding to himself, Rick goes back and gathers all his things together before he starts climbing down the fire escape as quickly and quietly as he can manage, until he reaches the second floor.

He taps on the window six times – quiet knocks that grow to a crescendo – and waits. After a minute, he jumps back with a curse when a young girl slams herself against the window, hands pressed flat, half of her jaw missing as she snarls and shoves at the glass, trying to break through to reach him.

Grimacing, Rick reaches into his backpack and takes out his spare shirt. He wraps it around his knuckles until it forms a tight ring of padding, and then slams his fist against the window. The glass breaks almost too easily and the girl falls out, clawing for him in slow, aborted movements like she's attached to a live wire and is still twitching, electrocuted. There's a rope around her neck.

He grabs her by the hair and hauls her upright before he swings her over the rail of the fire escape. She falls and lands on the spikes of the gate, but they don't go through her head, so she's still moving and groaning, reaching up for him to match the rest of the gathered walkers.

With the window broken Rick can climb in with relative ease, wincing when the glass crinkles under his boots as he steps into the room. It's the room of a teenage girl – probably the one he just threw out of the window.

He sighs, rubbing a hand through his hair and then over his face, and shakes out his shirt so that it's reasonably free of glass and he can shove it back into his bag. He can't hear any more movement but he doesn't doubt that the girl's parents are likely still hanging around. He tests the handle of the door and finds it locked, and when he twists the little piece in the center of the doorknob he can open it. Locked from the inside. Maybe mid-tantrum. Maybe terrified when her parents turned and trying to save herself.

He lifts his head and sees the other half of the rope she'd fashioned from what looks like her bedsheets, hanging limply from the ceiling fan. Maybe her window had been painted shut. Maybe she would have starved.

He thinks about Carl suffering like that and his stomach turns.

He goes out of her bedroom, knife ready to attack, and finds the father in what used to be the kitchen. He ends it quickly and lets it slump to the floor. Judging by the smell, there's nothing worth salvaging in this kitchen, but he searches anyway, halfheartedly. There's a bottle of water in the fridge, still almost cool, and cans of beans in the cabinet. There's a bag of chips too and he takes it down, pleased to find it unopened. He rips the bag open and starts to eat.

The sound of the bag must rouse the mother, because he suddenly hears her. She's faint, like even dead she can't get up the energy or power to come to him. He munches absently on the chips and wanders around, searching for her.

She's in the bathroom next to the master bedroom. There's a red stain on the floor. Rick doesn't look – he just quietly closes the door and kicks at the handle until it breaks off.

He walks into the living room and plops down on one of the thick, comfortably padded chairs. The apartment itself is fairly sparse, the life of two people working to make ends meet, but the chair is comfortable and soft to the touch, wrapped in thick red corduroy. Rick hums, digging deeper into the bag of chips and letting the food fill him.

His wristband catches on the bag and he pauses, looking at it. It's a plain, light blue. Rick knows they used to color-code residents depending on their various psychoses, but that practice had always seemed very pompous to Rick. To pigeonhole something as complex as the human mind, let alone the multitude of ways it can cease to function within society's constructs, is quite literally insane.

The psychopaths were brown, he remembers. The borderline personality disorders were a bright yellow. The depressed wore green. Schizophrenics got purple. He sighs, tilting his wrist until he can see the little piece of white paper stating his last name, first initial. Blood type. A series of letters and numbers that he assumes relates to his crimes, or his diagnoses. Or maybe his medicine doses. He had never thought to ask Daryl.

"Daryl," he whispers, suddenly looking up. There might be a phone in here. He can't see any one attached to a landline, but everyone had cell phones, right? He gets up, leaving the bag of chips on the chair, and goes hunting. The father doesn't have anything in his pockets, and he can't find one in the girl's room.

He goes back into the master bedroom. He can hear the mother hissing weakly, water sloshing in the full bathtub. He does his best to ignore it, looking instead for any kind of phone. He looks in the bedside cabinet and finds magazines and a pistol, which he takes. But there's nothing else useful. Huffing, he leaves the master bedroom and goes back out into the living room.

"Really?" he demands of the empty space. "No phones at all, people?"

There has to be one _somewhere_. One of the residents has to have one. Rick slides the new pistol he finds into his backpack and heads out of the door, sniper tied like the rifle to his bag, half-empty bag of potato chips rolled up and tucked into one of the water bottle pockets on the side.

The hallway is painted a dark green, the doors are ringed with gold around the peepholes and embedded with little golden numbers. The door opposite him is missing the number 3 from it, the silhouette of dust marking where it was next to its neighbor 2. Rick cocks his head to one side. He remembers that movie – _The Number 23_. A man driven insane by something he knew to be true. Prophecy. Destiny.

He smiles.

There's another door open at the end of the hallway and it leads to the stairwell. The stairs are dark, and despite him flipping the switch and waving his hand into the dark space, nothing comes on. He hums and draws back, unwilling to brave the darkness too soon, and turns down the second part of the L-shaped hallway. A couple of the apartments looks like they've already been raided here, and he goes into the first one on his left.

There's a landline here. He can see the phone cable stapled to the wall, running to the left and then around the corner. He follows it and grins when he sees a phone sitting on a little table next to the couch.

The apartment is in disarray, like someone left very quickly and didn't put too much thought into what they tried to bring. Looters might have come in after, deeming the place clear, and pilfered what they could. All of the doors to the main room in which he's standing are open, and Rick quickly goes back to the front door and closes it so that no stray walker might wander by and see him inside.

He closes the other doors and then goes back to the phone. It won't be long before landlines become completely unusable – Doctor Woodmore's office had proven that. He picks up the phone and breathes a sigh of relief when he hears the dial tone.

He puts in Shane's number.

_"The number you have dialed has not been recognized. Please check the number and try again."_

Frowning, he puts the phone down, then picks it up again. He dials Shane's number, carefully making sure he presses the right ones. Same message. He calls Lori's. The same. After the fourth attempt, he slams the phone down with a huff, running his other hand through his hair.

The phone starts ringing.

He picks it up.

"Rick, is that you?"

It's Lori's voice. Rick sighs, shaking his head. "Scared me for a second," he says, flopping down on the couch. "Are you guys safe? Are you good?"

"Yeah, we're good," Lori says. She sounds sleepy and warm. Rick can imagine her, curled up in an overly-large sweater, a mug of tea in her hand, soft and purring like a kitten. Only that's far from the probable truth. "We found a group, Rick. They're settled a few miles away from the trailer park."

Rick hums. "That's good," he replies quietly.

There's silence for a moment on the other end of the line, then Lori's voice comes again. "Shane will keep us safe," she says. "I trust him."

Rick closes his eyes and sighs. She doesn't need to say it for him to know what she really means. "I don't blame you," he replies. And he hopes she can understand and hear his unspoken _'For now'._ She trusts Shane more than she trusts Rick. It's an amazing thing, how quickly the human mind can latch onto a new truth and disregard all of the status quo from the years before.

Then, Lori's voice gets oddly bright, like she's describing an event she's been looking forward to all summer. "I don't think you should come back."

Rick straightens. "What?"

"I don't think you should come back," Lori says again. "You're going to get us all killed."

"No, I _won't_ ," Rick hisses into the phone, gripping it tight enough to hurt. His other hand is clenched and his fingers dig into the wound left behind by the broken toilet seat. "I promised – I promised to keep you safe. I _will_." _Better than Shane will. He'll kill you all_.

"You should stay away," Lori says again. "I don't want you here, around Carl, around Shane."

"Lori, please." His voice has lost all of its strength, it feels like his lungs are wrapped in wires and losing their size, like he can't get enough air in. He runs his free hand through his hair and fists it at the back of his neck until his palm starts to sting. He's shaking. " _Please_. I'll come back, I'll be better."

"Rick -."

"You promised!" Rick says, his voice weak. He shoves himself to his feet even though she's not there for him to loom over. He grabs the body of the phone so that he can pace in front of the couch, his knuckles white. "You promised you wouldn't take Carl away from me."

"You made promises too," Lori replies sharply. "You promised you wouldn't go in on your own. You promised Daryl."

Abruptly Rick stops in his pacing, frozen to the spot mid-stride. "What did you just say?"

"You promised Daryl you wouldn't leave without him," Lori says with the same tone. "How did that turn out?"

Rick closes his eyes, and breathes in deeply, the wire around his lungs suddenly melting away. He chokes on a laugh. "You're not real," he whispers, and looks around the apartment as though he expects to see cameras watching him. "This isn't a real phone call. The phones aren't working."

There's silence on the other side.

"You're not _real!_ " Rick says again, almost giddy with relief. He laughs, the sound quiet but full of joy.

"Rick, you're insane," Lori's voice says.

"Tell me something I don't know," Rick says, hissing the words. "Go on. Do it. Tell me…tell me when you and Shane started fucking behind my back. Tell me how much the medical bills were from my surgery – just the surgery, you never told me that. Tell me the last grade report Carl got in school. Tell me who won the last Falcons game, and by how much. Tell me how much money you left under Carl's pillow when the Tooth Fairy came -."

"A dollar."

"Hah! I knew that one." Rick shakes his head, laughing again. "Your tricks are weak, War, and they won't work on me."

He hangs up the phone abruptly and rips the cable out of it so that he can't ring again. He must be close – if War is scared enough to play tricks on him like this, then that means he's close. He gives a quiet whoop of victory, his cheeks hurting from smiling so wide.

The sense of victory doesn't last long. Sobering up, he realizes that if the phones are down, then there's no way he'll be able to call Daryl, Lori or Shane now. He won't hear their voices until he finds them again. Hell, he doesn't even know where they _are_.

He believes that his conversation with Shane had been real. There was no reason to think otherwise. So, they definitely have moved on already. Of course, they would have – there was no reason to stay behind. They weren't going to wait around for Rick and he made it clear that his journey would take more than a day.

He goes to the window and looks outside, tutting when he sees that the direction of the shadows has already started to change. Time flies in War's city, it seems. Or maybe his perception of it is just too skewed. Maybe he's walking through molasses.

Maybe he's starting to hear and see things that aren't there.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a shorter chapter but the next one has the Atlanta group! :D Also Rick still pining like no other.  
> Also this chapter contains strong themes of suicide, religion, and elements of self-harm. Please feel free to message me with questions/need for clarification.

Despite knowing it was a trick, and knowing he hasn't broken much ground, Rick feels tired to the bone by the time night falls on Atlanta again. He stays in the apartment he'd made the phone call from and manages to find enough blankets and pillows to create a comfortable pallet on the couch. It's not the hotel's bed and it's definitely not his bed at home, but it's still one of the more comfortable places he's chosen to sleep.

He places extra furniture around the bed and ties as many door handles as he can to other pieces of furniture to stop them opening, and checks the locks on the windows, just in case. When he closes his eyes, a vision comes to him of that same open field with the fire pit, around which the three horsemen and their mounts are standing. The fire is dead and cold, not even embers glowing when Rick approaches.

He eyes War carefully, catches the man's hand on his sword, ready to draw it. When Rick raises his eyes, he _knows_ he should be seeing the face of a man – someone he might recognize, or know when he sees. But there's nothing but a void. It's like staring into Death's eyes. "Nice trick you played," he says.

War laughs, the sound like braying animals. "That wasn't me," he replies.

Pestilence lets out a little hiss. "Don't speak out of turn," he orders. His fly-like eyes fix themselves on Rick and he lets out another hiccupping laugh. "Death is so _arrogant_ , so _cocky_. To pick a _mortal_ to hunt us down!"

"You're taking too much space," Famine says, his claws twitching in agitation. "Always taking too much. _You're taking too much_."

"Don't speak out of turn!"

"Now, gentlemen," War says, stepping forward and holding his hand out for quiet. At once the other two instantly go still, turning towards him. "There's no _real_ need to stay in order once we're here, is there?"

Famine nods in frantic agreement. "He only cares so that he goes first."

"What do you think?" War asks, turning to look at Rick. Rick flinches back from him like War moved to strike him, his eyes on the glint of red gems in the sword's pommel. War laughs. "Come on, now, don't be shy."

"Not shy," Pestilence murmurs. "Smart."

Famine cackles, talon-like fingers reaching and curling around Rick's arm. He slithers closer like a serpent, his chasm-like maw still making that blowing sound like wind through a cave. When Rick looks down he sees the grass around Famine's feet start to wither and turn yellow, then black.

Abruptly, hunger settles in the pit of his stomach. It's not a normal hunger, he knows enough to know that, but it claws at the inside of his belly all the same. It stirs up his heart, throwing the beat of it off. It clings to his lungs and he aches for things he's never had before – he's thirsty for anything liquid, his lungs ache for cigarette smoke even though he's never smoked a day in his life. Famine's talons dig in and Rick falls to one knee, unable to completely collapse because Famine doesn't let go of him. He gasps for air, feeling like he's suffocating. His skin at once burns and he feels chilled to the core. He _wants_ , he wants to devour, to consume, in all the ways a body can.

"Can't be too smart," Famine hisses, "if he keeps coming here."

Gasping, Rick wrenches his arm away from Famine's grip. The thing's claws rake down his arm, leaving deep welts in the muscle of his bicep and shoulder. Famine cackles and lifts his bloody hand to his mouth, sliding his fingers into the gaping hole in his jaw. He swallows the talons whole.

"You don't know what kind of forces you're playing with," Pestilence says quietly. Not threatening, not quite. It's the amber eyes of a wolf in the shadows, judging the lunging distance, judging the speed of its prey before it leaps.

Rick steps back, his hands shaking with fear, his head fuzzy with pain. The pain feels so _real_. He presses his hand to the welts on his arm and hisses when they sting. Famine cackles as the vision starts to fade. Rick jerks awake with a groan and clutches at his arm. He's lying on his side and he sits up, hissing when he grabs the arm that Famine had held and his fingers come back sticky and wet with blood.

"What the Hell…?" He gets up and switches on the lights in the main room. It's still night outside and the apartment is shrouded in darkness even around the yellowy halo of the cheap overhead light. Still, Rick flinches from the light and resists the urge to wipe at his eyes.

He lifts the sleeve of his shirt and holds his arm out to try and look at his wounds. There are four long, deep gouges in his flesh and blood is soaking the sleeve and shoulder of his shirt. He grimaces and goes to the bathroom and pulls off his shirt to try and get a better look.

"Goddamn," he mutters, pressing his fingers into one of them. New blood wells up but it's thin and there isn't much of it – he's already starting to heal up. There's skin under his fingernails. "Did I…?"

_Did he?_

He jumps again as the phone starts to ring. It's loud and shrill and he runs back into the main room with a curse. He doesn't trust the phones but he can't let it keep ringing in case it draws more walkers to him. He picks it up and slowly raises it to his ear.

"Rick?"

Rick blows out a shaky breath, his blood-slick fingers clenching the phone tightly as he raises the back of his hand to his mouth. He sucks the air back in, his lungs burning. "No," he whispers. "No, not you too. You're _not_ -."

"Rick, it's okay. It's okay, I'm not mad."

Another shaky breath slides its way down Rick's throat, it feels like he's choking on his air. It's not, it's _not_ -. It doesn't sound right. Rick knows it's not him, he _knows_ it's not. "Please," he whispers, falling back down onto the couch. It feels like his bones weigh a thousand pounds. He runs his hand through his hair and doesn't care about the blood he smears across his forehead. "Not – not him. Anyone but him."

"Just come back to me, Rick. Please."

Rick knows what this is – if War can't threaten him or make him weak with despair, he can tug on Rick's longing to go back to the man that his soul so obviously aches for. That is the power of the horsemen – they can see, can feel what makes a human soul tick. War knows what will make Rick mad, what will urge him to fight or force him to cower. Famine knows what he hungers for. Maybe Pestilence caused his sickness in the first place, and every monster he sees now will lunge for Rick because they know what their master has commanded of them.

The phone isn't even plugged in anymore. Rick is sure he disconnected it.

"Rick?"

His voice – God, he sounds _so much like him_ – is timid and young. Rick feels his heart trying to throw itself out of his chest. He opens his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he says, and slams the phone down. He gets up and gathers his things and leaves the apartment before War can call again. There's a walker in the hallway, lured by the sound of the phone, and Rick slams a knife into its skull before it can even turn and reach for him.

He walks towards the stairwell that had been so dark before. He has no flashlight and no phone to use as a light, and the lights still don't work in the stairwell. He has to rely on his senses to get through safely. He throws his backpack over his shoulders until it settles, hissing at the straps as they dig into his injured shoulder.

He can't hear any hissing or growling, and he reaches out to put one hand on the wall as he moves. He keeps his steps slow and quiet, reaching out with each foot to make sure he doesn't step on a slumbering walker or trip over anything else in the stairwell. There's a drip coming from above him, he can hear it hitting something metallic. Possibly the railing, or a grate, down below.

_Drip. Drip._

Rick breathes as slowly and quietly as he can manage. The wall turns, becomes a corner, arcs in front of him and to his right. He slides his hand along it and flinches when he hits a pipe. It's not a walker but the fear and shock momentarily paralyzes him. He feels like he's being hunted, that wolf in the shadows prowling closer.

"It's not real," he whispers as quietly as he can, but it feels like his voice echoes and crescendos until it's deafening in the silence. _Drip, drip, drip._ "He's not here. It wasn't them. It's not real." He wishes Death would come to him, to assure him of what is real and what's in his head. Then again, Death is in his head, too, and he's biased. Maybe Daryl's a figment of his imagination too. Maybe he never woke up from his coma.

The thought stops him dead in his tracks. He's about to step down another flight of stairs, his toes on the edge of the first one. He can feel the change in height, stretching out below him, darker than black. He feels like a dormouse in springtime, curled up in her burrow, too fragile to face the chilly air just yet. With everything that he has, he doesn't want to go forward.

"It's not real," Rick says, and tilts his head up, eyes raised. As though by spying some light from above he might be able to cling to the reality, whatever reality happens to be. But there's no light. Just dusty, cold air and that _drip, dripping._

Start high, end low. Rick whistles, his shaky breath unable to hold the note for as long as Daryl could, but it does the trick. _Where are you?_ That's what it had meant, that's what Daryl told him. He thinks. The whistle sharpens and deforms itself as it slides up the stairwell, growing extra limbs and echoes until he's sure it's no longer discernible, where the high note ended and the long one began.

Then, he hears a snarl, and it sounds more like a dog than a walker.

He bolts down the stairs, taking two at a time when he can. He flies blindly, grabbing onto the handrail on his other side when his foot steps too far or he's at risk of falling. His shoulder burns whenever he has to use that hand but it does the trick – one more rounded corner and Rick can see the silhouette of light beyond a closed exit door.

He slams the door open and runs out into the light. He hears another snarl behind him but then the door closes, shutting off whatever beast had been lurking within. Immediately Rick feels warmer. It's not exactly hot yet, since it's still nighttime and the only illumination is from the nearby street lights, but it's a damn sight warmer than it was in the stairwell.

He doesn't have time to stop. There are walkers in the streets and Rick bolts to the right, towards the center of the city. He runs past a few strays but none of them are quick enough to catch him. After a few blocks his heart has stopped hammering out of fear, his sweat turns cold on his forehead, and he feels lightheaded and weak from lack of sleep and food, and blood loss.

He turns so that his back is against one of the buildings, resting his head against the side of it, and sucks in a few slow, deep breaths, trying to get his breathing and heartbeat back down to normal. He can hear the few walkers he drew the attention of following, trying to find him. They'll turn the corner soon enough and he'll have to keep moving, but for now he can afford a brief respite.

It's a monumentally stupid idea to be out on the streets of a city in the middle of the night at the end of the world, and Rick understands that. He lifts his head when he sees three walkers turning the corner and shuffling towards him, and sighs, straightening from the building and carrying on his way. He leaves a red stain behind, where his arm was resting.

It feels like he's been in War's city for a thousand years. This must have been how Moses felt wandering the desert for years. Faith is strong and can carry a man forever if he lets it, but the journey is never easy. Rick sighs, forcing himself to keep just ahead of the walkers.

It would be easy, he thinks. To just let them catch him. To fall prey to the hunger or let himself linger a little too long, or succumb to another thing his stubborn body demands. But he can't. Because even if Lori does hate him, even if she doesn't want him back, even if Daryl is so mad at him that his love for Rick turns cold and ancient and no more useful than a monument, Rick has to get back to them. He has to protect his family.

He turns a corner and spies a church. It's a small, nondescript stone building, but the walls haven't fallen, the windows remain intact, the garden looks fairly clean and pure. There might be people inside. He walks up to the gate and sees the strings of cans tied up between the walkways, and smiles.

He flicks his finger against one and walks up to the door, knocking six times. The jingle of the can resonates around him, something like stones or dried food inside to make the noise.  The door is made of wood, strong and embedded with black metal to make a pattern of a four-pointed star.

After a moment, a small slide at eye-level moves one way, revealing a pair of brown eyes. The skin around them is wrinkled from smile lines, but the eyes themselves are narrowed suspiciously. They widen when they see him and then the slide goes back and Rick hears the door open.

"Get inside, get inside!" It's a woman, around Rick's age, her hair going grey at the roots but the rest tied up in a tight black bun. She waves him in and slams the door shut behind him, sealing it with a heavy iron bolt. "The Hell you doin' wandering' around at this hour, huh? Gonna get yourself k-."

She stops, freezing when she sees the blood on Rick's shoulder. "You're not…infected, are ya?" she asks quietly, gathering her thick shawl closer to her like a shield.

Rick shakes his head. "No, this is…something else," he says. "No bite." The woman nods. "Thank you for letting me in. I had a few of them on my tail."

The woman raises an eyebrow, before she sweeps past Rick and into the church proper. It's a gorgeous building, especially for its size, with a deep purple carpet and white walls, the pews a dark, shining brown and an effigy of the Virgin Mary standing behind the altar, her hands outspread and her smile kind. It's the first statue Rick can remember seeing of her smiling. Rick follows her.

"You hungry?" she asks. Rick licks his lips and shakes his head. He won't take this woman's food.

She fixes him with a bemused expression, her other eyebrow rising up. "Well, hon, you're cute but you're a crappy liar. Siddown and don't insult my hospitality by denying me the chance to feed you."

Rick smiles, bowing his head in a gesture of acceptance, and takes a seat in the front pew. It's been a long time since he's been in a church, but the atmosphere is peaceful in here, warm and heavy like a blanket or cloak. The woman disappears into an antechamber and comes back with a bowl of oatmeal. Rick blinks in surprise when he takes the bowl and finds it hot.

"Kettle still works," she offers in explanation, sitting down on the other side of the aisle in the first pew with a bowl of her own. "For now, at least."

"Thank you," Rick says, taking a bite. It's maple and brown sugar flavor and very sweet, but it's the first warm food he's had in almost a week and he eats it gratefully, savoring each bite. "You're very kind." She just shrugs. "Why are you here?"

She sighs through her nose, dipping the spoon around the oatmeal in thought. "I was here when it started," she says. "I live in Pennsylvania, so it didn't seem smart to try and get back home. Even if I did beat the evacuations, I'd never be able to get past D.C. and get home. And what's the difference, anyway? No family up there." She takes a deep breath, then sighs, and raises her eyes to Rick's. "You got a family?"

Rick nods. "Yes."

She waits for him to elaborate, then huffs a smile when he falls silent again. "Alright, mystery man. Don't tell me."

"It's not that," Rick says, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. "It's…hard to explain."

"Well, the day's young, unless you have somewhere to be."

Rick chuckles, conceding that with a nod. She reminds him a lot of Shane when they both were younger, there's something comfortable about being around her. Like they're both without worries even when so much evidence is pointing to otherwise.

"My ex-wife and my best friend have my son, a little ways from here," he tells her. "They're waiting for me to come back to them. I came here because I gotta…do something."

She nods solemnly, as though this is exactly the answer she was expecting. "Well, I guess I can think of worse ways to spend the apocalypse," she says, taking a bite of oatmeal. "You know the story of the apocalypse? Revelations?"

Rick nods, a little more eagerly than he'd meant to. "Yes. Yes, I've read it several times."

"This isn't how I expected it to go."

"This is _exactly_ how it was meant to go," Rick says. Her eyes widen and she cocks her head to one side. Rick bites his lip and shifts his weight back, ducking his head in an attempt to make himself smaller. He doesn't want to frighten her. "Sorry. Forget I said anything."

"No, I want to hear," she says. She sets her bowl of oatmeal down, half-eaten, and reaches out to touch his knee. He lifts his head. "Tell me."

Rick licks his lips, and looks to one side at the statue of the Virgin. The way her head is turned makes it look like she's smiling right at him and he swallows, his throat feeling suddenly tight. The air feels cold and when he looks back at her, he abruptly knows just why she wants to hear his story. He shakes his head and she nods, sighing and sitting back quietly.

"I should go," he murmurs, finishing off the oatmeal. "Thank you, again, for the food."

"Here, take these too," she says, and leaves the main room again for a moment. She comes back with two kitchen knives and a small revolver. Rick takes the knives and slides them into his backpack. She holds out the gun for him again and he thinks about taking it, but he pushes it back to her chest with a shake of his head.

"It'll be faster," he says.

"I don't want to make a mess."

Rick nods. "Then do it outside."

She cocks her head to one side, trembling lips pursed in thought, before she nods. "There's more food in the other room, too. Take what you need. I'll wait here. Will you…walk out with me?" Rick smiles and nods, and goes into the second room where he sees a small collection of packaged goods and canned fruit and vegetables. He takes everything he feels that he can reasonably carry, the backpack now heavy and tugging uncomfortably on his shoulder. He heads back out into the main room.

She's still standing there, clutching the gun like a lifeline. Her face is pale and her hands are shaking, and Rick reaches out to rest a hand on her shoulder. She's almost a full foot shorter than him, her eyes wide and scared as he looks at her.

"You have nothing to be afraid of," he tells her quietly, as they begin to walk towards the door. It feels more solemn than a funeral, packed with more anticipation than a wedding day. He smiles at her and opens the door for her, leading her outside. There are no walkers around the church. They’ve either lost interest or been drawn by someone else making noise elsewhere in the city.

The dawn has just started to break, the sky turning a happy mix of pink and blue. Rick smiles, reminded of the gender colors people tend to use at a new birth or a baby shower. They're pretty, soft colors. A beautiful start to the day. He turns back to the woman.

Her hands are shaking and she manages a watery smile when she looks up at him. "I'm glad I met you," she says. "You seem like…you're going to be okay. Thank you."

Rick nods, looking down at the gun in her hands, then back at her face. "I won't judge you for this," he says, "but if you're afraid of a God who does, I can do it for you."

Her thin smile breaks out into a full grin, a sob leaving her as she raises her hand to her mouth and starts to cry, handing him the gun. It's a small thing, wouldn't do much damage at long range, but it'll do the trick for now. He flips out the chamber and counts the rounds. It's fully loaded. He flicks it back into place and cocks it.

Cold spreads down his arm, his right, holding the gun. When he closes his eyes and sucks in a breath, he feels empty and hollow like the innards of a skeleton's ribcage. He opens his eyes and wonders if she can see the same comforting black that he does when he looks upon Death. Her eyes are wide and shiny with tears.

He reaches out to her and cups the back of her head, bringing her in for a hug. She lets out another frightened sob, her head fitting neatly under his chin, and Rick is reminded suddenly of when Carl used to have nightmares and would climb into bed with him and Lori at night and cling to them until he fell asleep again. She feels like a child in his arms, seeking comfort and peace in his embrace, for him to reassure her that the monsters aren't real and that there's nothing to be afraid of.

He pulls back just far enough to kiss the top of her head like he did with James, and then he takes a step away from her and lifts the gun. He sits it against her forehead and fires it and she falls to the ground in a heavy slump. Her eyes are still closed, the smiles lines around them shiny with her tears.

Feeling strangely unsettled, Rick slides the revolver into the back of his jeans and turns away from the church. The sound will have drawn walkers, the gunshot loud in the otherwise silent street. It occurs to him as he walks away that he never asked her for her name.

 

 

 

Rick thinks of Daryl that night.

He's in another apartment building, one he made sure had no phones and nothing else that could come alive and mess with him. The lights don't even work, so he definitely knows that anything he might see or hear is inside his own head, and that he can therefore ignore it.

He secures one of the bedrooms and curls up in the bed there, having taken a cold shower and wrapped a bandage around his shoulder and bicep to try and make sure he doesn't keep bleeding everywhere. He'd stopped bleeding sometime around midday, but knowing him he wouldn't put it past himself to turn or scratch in such a way that reopened the wounds.

He closes his eyes and sighs. Daryl wouldn't have let him kill that woman. Daryl would have…shit, probably tried to take her in. She'd have gotten a green wristband for the depressed, because depressed and suicidal used to go hand in hand at the facility. They're not the same, Rick knows that, but they didn't have enough colors in the rainbow to be picky.

He'd have taken her in, made sure she felt safe, asked her for her fucking _name_. It's times like these when Rick thinks he belonged in the facility. He doesn't think like other people do – not anymore, at least. Maybe he never did. Maybe it was one of the things that made him such a good cop in the before times. Maybe it's what attracted Lori to him, maybe that's the thing that made Shane his best friend. Some weird little switch in his head that didn't try to sympathize.

 _You pick your people_. He could have picked her, and had her stay with him, but the truth of the matter is that Rick knew as soon as he spoke with her that she wasn't long for this Earth. She'd have starved, or wandered out and gotten killed, or taken her own life some other way whether he'd come there or not. Such is the way of the world.

Death isn't vicious, Death doesn't have favorites or pick sides. Death is inevitable and when it comes, it comes. There's no maliciousness in it. Rick sighs again and rolls onto his back, staring through the blackness towards the ceiling.

Daryl would have stopped him.

He wishes he could hear the man's voice, or his breathing, or just feel the warmth of him plastered to Rick's side. He doesn't feel content anymore, but aimless and wandering like a soul looking for its body. There's nothing tying him anywhere except his son and his mission. There's no reason to be here beyond Death's order, there's no reason to set off elsewhere except that everything in every fiber of his being is crying out to be by Daryl's side.

Rick doesn't sleep well that night, and his dreams are full of fire and the undead.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Atlanta group! \o/

There's a herd of walkers on the road. It arcs above Rick's head. They fall over the edge and break their skulls on the concrete when they see him, no longer a threat. He hears it so often now he doesn't react anymore.

He sits on the far side of the road onto which they are falling, his back to a highway divider, resting comfortably as he gingerly fishes out individual slices of peaches from the can, and then tips it back to drink down the juice. He rubs his mouth clean with the back of his hand and tosses the can, squinting and lifting his hand to shield his eyes from the sunlight as he continues to watch them.

"Ninety-nine walking dead on the wall, ninety-nine walking dead…." He whistles the rest of the tune and fishes out another can of peaches. It has the same opening on the lid as a can of beer or soda and he pops it, peeling the lid back and slurping the thick syrup before digging around for the fruit. He thinks of how disgusted Lori would be with his eating habits, and laughs.

Another one, who used to be a heavy-set man – tumbles over and lands on its legs instead, snapping the bone and faceplanting on the tarmac. It's still moving, liftings its head, covered in black goo, and crawling towards Rick. Rick sighs and gets to his feet.

"Fine, I'll move," he mutters, finishing the peaches and throwing the can at the walker, before he gathers his stuff and moves on. The sight of the things still unnerves him, but he doesn't feel fear when he looks at them. Death will protect him until it is his time – just as it is his destiny. He need not fear the walking dead. They are born of a lesser being.

He stops when he hears a soft sound, cocking his head to one side. Over the hiss and growl of the walkers it's hard to make out, but he _swears_ he heard -.

There is it again. High. Shrill. A whistle?

He stops, his heart hammering as he strains to listen again. He tries to remember what each of Daryl's whistles means, but all he can remember is the _Where are you_ and the one that he had deemed only theirs. This one sounds like neither of them.

It's definitely one of the ones he was taught. He remembers hearing it. He's heard it before. But it's – he can't make it out, just clearly enough. But it's…it has to be Daryl, doesn't it? Daryl would whistle for him, to find him.

He licks his lips and sticks two fingers in his mouth and whistles. High to low, as long as he can make it. _Where are you?_

There's a pause, and Rick hurries away from the walkers so that he can hear better. He whistles again through his fingers, the shrill sound carrying and echoing between the buildings, vibrating through the air. _Where are you?_

He wants to yell Daryl's name, but he dares not. He keeps moving, towards where he thinks the whistle might have come from. It's so hard to tell around the buildings, and with the wind and the hisses and groans of walkers. He waits and listens again, desperate to hear the sweet sound of Daryl's whistle calling him to the man.

Then, he stops, at the corner of the Doubletree hotel. A walker lunges for him and he quickly turns, slamming his knife into its skull with a grunt. The thing collapses, staring up at him with big, white eyes and a gaping maw. Reminded of Famine, Rick shivers and turns away. He whistles one more time.

_Where are you?_

"Daryl, _please_ answer," he whispers. "Please, _please_ answer."

He keeps walking, around the corner where the road curves across the entrance of the hotel. There are cars packed in the road, already covered in a fine layer of dust and dirt. The doors to the hotel have been broken in, glass shattered on the ground. Rick freezes when he hears gunshots, and then three loud, high-pitched whistles.

Even if had entirely forgotten, he would know what that sound meant. _Danger_. The whistle sounds like it's close by and it doesn't stop. Rick turns, looking towards the back doors of another hotel – the Westin. The doors are dark, tinted, revealing nothing of the inside. He flinches when he hears another gunshot, and this time there's a yell.

He bolts for the hotel doors.

Once inside, the noises surround him. He has run in on the very bottom floor and he can hear a woman screaming coming from one of the upper levels, as well as a man's rough shout. Then another gunshot and he steps back as the body of a walker tumbles down and lands with a crack on the floor in front of him.

He hears the whistle again. It's not coming from the people on the upper level. Cursing, Rick pauses just long enough to draw the little revolver from his back and make sure his grip is good on his knife, before he's hurrying up the little flight of stairs between the lobby and the lounge. There's a circular staircase leading up before he gets to the elevators, and then escalators on the other side, frozen still. He goes for the stairs and hurries up it. There's a walker at the top of the first flight and he stabs it through the chin, bodily hauling it over his shoulder and sending it falling to the ground below. Then he keeps going, breathing heavily by the time he reaches the third floor. There's a single walkway spanning between the circular building's sides, a conference room on either and rooms along the edge. He hears gunshots from his left, and the whistle to his right.

He grits his teeth. He wants to go to Daryl, to make sure that he's alright, but Daryl is strong and if he's in a position to whistle then he's probably not in _that_ much danger, compared to the people openly waging war to his left. Daryl would want him to go left. _Daryl_ would go left.

The decision is made for him when the conference room on his left goes abruptly silent. Rick doesn't hear any screeching or groaning coming from that direction, and when he steps out into the walkway several people come stumbling out from that way. They're spattered with blood and ooze, wide-eyed and breathless, and they freeze when they see Rick.

There are four of them. There's a young Asian man who has the worst of the splatter, painted across his clothes, a pistol hanging limply at his side. There's a large black man, his face sweaty under his knitted cap, behind him. There's a thin blonde woman with suspicious eyes, holding a knife. She's the one who moves from surprised to wary first. Then there's another woman, dark-skinned and pretty, her face worn with sadness and not holding a weapon that Rick can see.

Then, the whistle comes again, and Rick turns to look that way and bolts off in the other direction. After a moment, he can hear the four other people hurrying along behind him, and wonders if they know what the whistle means too, or if they just decided that five of them is better than four of them.

After the walkway there's a door, which opens into a corridor with a dead end and four doors leading to what Rick assumes are either storage or conference rooms. Three of the doors are open and one is slammed shut. There's a walker outside of it, clawing at the door. Rick feels the four people behind him slow to a stop.

"I got it," the Asian man says, lifting his gun. Rick holds up his hand.

"Don't waste the bullets," he says, advancing on the walker. "And shooting is a good way to draw more."

The walker snarls, alerted by the sound of his voice, and turns towards him. It's a woman, or was, her long hair running down to her waist, her eyes blank and white, her jaw gnawing already. There's blood on her face and down her arms from her kills. It looks like she snapped her neck, her head cocked oddly as she lurches towards him.

Rick grabs her hair and yanks her head back, slamming his knife into her eye, before he lets her fall. Gravity separates her from the knife and he wipes the blade absently on his shirt before slipping it back through the loop on the other side of his gunbelt.

He knocks on the closed door six times and whistles lowly, long, then a high, short note. "All clear," he says.

"Holy shit," one of the women whispers. "He knows the whistles."

"Who are you?" the Asian man asks, walking towards him as Rick steps back from the door. He can hear shuffling around inside – Daryl must have barred the door. Seems strange – Daryl can and has handled a sole walker on his own. Perhaps he's injured. Anxiety twists up his spine.

Rick looks over at him. "Name's Rick," he says, holding a hand out to shake.

The Asian man's expression melts into a surprised smile as he reaches forward and shakes Rick's hand. "No shit," he says. "I'm Glenn. We spoke on the phone." Rick blinks at him, too caught off guard to say anything. "Thought you might'a died or somethin', man. Cool you didn't."

"It's nice to meet you," Rick says. The door opens abruptly, revealing a well-lit room inside. Rick takes a step back even though every part of him is leaping in eagerness to see Daryl again.

"Told you you shouldn't have split from us," the blonde says acidly, one eyebrow raised in a haughty expression.

"You just missed my sweet charm," comes the reply, and Rick almost flinches from shock. It's not Daryl's voice, not even close. He blinks and turns in time to see Merle slide out of the conference room, his grin wide and lopsided, eyes slanted and lazy. They widen abruptly when he sees Rick, crowing in delight. "Oh, ain't it Officer Friendly! Aren't you a sight for sore eyes."

"Merle," Rick says flatly, trying to hide the disappointment in his voice.  This is still good, because Merle was with Daryl and if he still is, then maybe Daryl is nearby. He nods at the man and receives a smug-looking smirk in return. "You're looking well."

"Fit as a fiddle, I feel reborn, Blue-eyes." Rick's mouth twists and he sucks in a breath through his nose.

"You guys…know each other?" Glenn hazards, looking between the two of them.

"Of course, Chinaman, how many _Rick Grimes_ es do you think there are in this place?"

Glenn's jaw clenches and he rolls his eyes. "I told you I'm _Korean_."

Merle huffs, grinning at the reaction. "Anywho, this boy here -." He slams his meaty arm down on Rick's shoulders, making his shoulder jolt in pain, "was ridin' with our group for a while, decided to go into the big city on his own like a damn fool." He claps his hand heavily on Rick's injured shoulder, to the point where Rick can't shake the thought that he's doing it on purpose. Merle gives him a lopsided grin but his eyes are sharp and grey like gunmetal. "Can't say I blame ya, can't think my brother's a good enough lay to stick around for -."

" _Not_ that it's any of your business," Rick bites out, grabbing Merle's hand and forcibly removing it from his shoulder, "but that's not why I left, and Daryl knows it."

"Did you ever plan on coming back?" Merle challenges. "Didn't even try ta call him, but you called your cop buddy and your ex-pussy. Makes a man feel unwanted. Not that you'd care about Dixon-folk."

Rick hesitates, his eyes flashing to the other four who are still staring at Rick and Merle like they're street actors in the most surreal show they've ever seen. "I have to go," Rick says. "I have to…Daryl knows what I have to do. Then I'll come back. If you tell me where you are, I'll come back."

Merle is already shaking his head. "Not on your life," he says, folding his arms across his chest and lifting his chin. His stance is wide, his eyes hard, jaw slightly crooked like he's ready to take a fist to the face. He's gearing up for a fight, and Rick doesn't want to fight him, not least because he's far from at his physical best and it would be a short event. "I'm not letting you outta my sight, Grimes, and I'll either see ya die or bring yer sorry ass back so Daryl can kill ya himself."

Rick huffs a breath and shakes his head. "I can't leave. I have to – I have to do something here. I don't know how long it's gonna take."

"Well…" That's Glenn, who seems to have broken out of his stupor of watching Rick and Merle argue. He shifts his weight when the two men look at him. "I mean, maybe we could help you? On the phone, you said you were looking for someone. Maybe we can help you find them."

"It ain't that simple," Rick tells him with a small shake of his head, then a meaningful look to Merle. He doesn't know how much Merle remembers from when they first met, or how much Daryl has told him about Rick's condition, but he can see in the set of the man's jaw that he's not going to take whatever Rick has to say lightly. "And the reason I went in alone is 'cause I don't want anyone getting' hurt cause'a me. So, thank you, but no. I should leave."

He nods at Glenn and the others and walks past them, out into the hallway. There's a walker dangling from the walkway above him, hissing and reaching for him. Its arm and neck is trapped by torn clothing. Neck probably snapped. He doesn't pay it any mind.

"Hey!" It's Merle's voice, Rick can hear the man's heavy steps behind him, catching up. He stops at the top of the winding staircase, leading down. Merle grabs him by his injured shoulder and swings him around. "I ain't lettin' ya outta my sight, you crazy son of a bitch. I wasn't kiddin'."

Rick clenches his jaw hard enough that his teeth squeak. "Your brother doesn't think I'm crazy," he says quietly.

"My brother's thinkin' with his dick more'n his head these days. I'd be proud of him if he didn't have such shitty taste in ass," Merle says distastefully. "You should come back with us. We were headin' out of the city anyway. Your crazy crusade can wait another day."

Rick closes his eyes. So this is how War gets him – with a pushy brother and a group of innocent, wide-eyed people trailing behind. Too honest, too well-meaning. He sighs. "I want to go back," he says, stepping closer to Merle and leaning in so that he can keep his voice lowered. "I _can't_ go back. Not yet. Daryl will understand."

Merle shakes his head, huffing a breath through his teeth. He smells like cheap beer and there are hints of cigarette smoke on him that makes Rick's nose burn, his heart leaping as he thinks of Daryl when he'd be out on smoke breaks, relaxed and fine in the sunlight. The longing that feels like it's sitting permanently in his soul stretches and spreads out like a lax cat, tail twitching, one eye slitted open.

"I'm not goin' back 'til you do," Merle says, just as quietly. A gun with a silencer. The growl of a tiger. "Far as I'm concerned, you broke his Goddamn heart, and I'll be damned if I go back and tell 'im I saw ya and didn't bring ya home."

Rick searches Merle's face. Out of the corner of his eye he can see the other four gathered, hovering in his periphery. Merle is valued enough by this group that they're willing to stay in a dangerous place to let him argue with a stranger. They trust him enough to offer help with Rick just because they say they knew each other, and care for him enough that they come running at the sound of him being in danger. If they trust and handle Merle, there's no way Daryl isn't with them, back at their camp. And Shane, and Lori, and Carl. His whole family is safe and protected and _so close_.

"I want to go," Rick confesses. Then, "Why were _you_ here?"

"Supply run," Merle says.

"No, I get why _they_ might be here," Rick replies, jerking his head towards the other four. "But why are _you_ here? It's only been a few days, last I saw you you weren't even fit to walk, let alone run around fightin' walkers."

Merle's jaw flexes and he folds his arms over his chest. "Well, yer motherin' is mighty nice, but I don't swing that way, cowboy. You comin' with us or not?"

Before Rick can reply there's the sound of glass shattering, a chorus of moans and growls floating up from below.

"Boys, can we take this reunion elsewhere?" the blonde asks, her shoulders tense, the tendons in her neck flexing as she swallows. Rick cocks his head to one side and listens. The walkers will probably figure out stairs and the stalled escalators pretty quickly.

"We should head up," Rick says, jerking his head towards the ceiling. "There's probably fire escapes in a building like this. Get out in the open where we can move around and then down."

Glenn nods, pressing his face together. "T-Dog, you and I'll cover. Andrea, take point with Rick. Jacqui, you and Merle stay close." The blonde – Andrea, Rick guesses, from the way she immediately moves to the front of the pack – sends him a warning look and walks back towards the hallway. Rick follows and takes his place on her left. Merle struts his way to the middle and pulls out a hunting knife to have at the ready. Rick chooses not to comment on the way Merle eyes his rifle and sniper.

"Here," Rick says, handing the sniper to Jacqui who appears to be without a weapon. "If nothing else you can bash someone's head in with that."

She looks at him with wide eyes and takes the weapon slowly. "…Thank you," she says.

"Jeez, man, a little more tact, maybe?" T-Dog mutters, and Rick just grins at him over his shoulder. Glenn and T-Dog fan out, weapons aimed for the stairs as they pass them and make their way towards the escalators. Andrea takes the one on the right, Rick on the left as they head up them, Glenn and T-Dog climbing backwards so they don't get taken by surprise.

There are only two more floors but when Rick and Andrea circle from the escalators, they stop when they see a huge crowd of walkers in the hallway stuck between the escalators. A couple of the ceiling tiles have dropped down, one of the potted plants framing the walkway lies in a heap of shattered pottery and mud.

"Shit," Andrea whispers. Rick nods in agreement. With the way the escalators are angled they'll have to walk right past the herd of walkers to try and keep going up. "Any ideas?"

Rick creeps out to a ledge out of sight and looks down. The walkers have started to make their way up the stairs, slowly blocking off the way back down. He clenches his jaw and straightens just as Jacqui, Merle, T-Dog and Glenn join them at the top of the previous flight of escalators.

Rick holds out a hand before they can barrel forward, catching Glenn at chest height. He raises his finger to his lips and nods towards the herd of walkers. Glenn and T-Dog crane their necks to look.

These people aren't cops, but there are certain signals that are pretty easy to understand. Rick looks around – there's a pathway leading left that circles around to the other side of the hall where the walkers are. Rick holds up his hand for them to stay and walks quickly around it. None of them follow. When he gets to the other side he can just see Merle and T-Dog's heads through the crowd of undead, mostly hidden behind the escalators.

Then, he cups his hands to his mouth and lets out a wordless shout. It draws the attention of the closest walkers, and like most pack animals once a few notice he's there, their growls rise up in volume and they start to advance on him. "Go up when it's clear!" Rick yells. "I'll come around!"

They don't answer. The closest walker – a night manager from the look of it, complete with security stick and badge still clinging to his bloody grey shirt – lunges for him and Rick slams his knife up against the thing's jaw, through the soft skin of its neck. It slumps over and falls to the ground just in time for a woman to grab him, hissing loudly in his ear. He jerks away, reminded too closely of Famine, and stabs her in the eye.

He starts to back up around the circle walkway, and turns and runs back when he's sure that the others are clear. Glenn is still at the bottom, gun raised to cover the space between the elevators, waving him frantically up.

"Come on, come on!" Glenn says, backing up as Rick swings around the front of the escalators.

"Go," Rick urges, pushing at Glenn's chest until the younger man lowers his gun and starts up the escalators. When they reach the top Rick spots the others at the emergency exit door. There's a small plaque he can see as he approaches declaring that the door has roof access. "Through here, come on!"

Andrea yanks the door open and shrieks, jumping back when a walker falls forward into their midst. Rick immediately swings his knife down and forward, planting it in the back of the thing's skull. When he straightens, the others are looking at him with wide, shocked eyes, and he wipes the back of his wrist across his forehead and licks his lips.

"Come on," Glenn says after a moment, nudging T-Dog and Jacqui up the stairs. There's a second door up a small flight of stairs and they burst out into the daylight. Rick closes the door behind them at the bottom of the stairs and then again at the top.

"Jesus Christ, man, you're insane," T-Dog says, shaking his head and looking in Rick's direction. He has his hands braced against his thighs, crouched over as he catches his breath. "Runnin' straight at those things."

"Is everyone alright?" Rick asks over his shoulder. He hasn't moved away from the door, and is listening. The door had opened outwards when they came, which means if the walkers can hear or smell them, they'll come this way. He thinks he can hear them hissing, or maybe it's the growl of a dog.

"We're all here," Andrea says crisply, taking in a deep breath. "Now what?"

Rick straightens and turns around, and freezes. The rooftop has a wall around it at knee height, and he can see a little step ladder on the other side of it where there's a fire escape. There's a red pipe running across it, thick and bright. He swallows hard enough that his throat clicks and feels a chill sweep through his spine.

Something is about to happen.

"Alright, come on, to the fire escape," Glenn says after a moment of silence, walking that way. The other three follow, but Merle stays, his arms folded across his chest, watching Rick expectantly.

Rick raises an eyebrow and looks at him. "Aren't you going with them?" he asks. He'd meant to ask it quietly but apparently it's loud enough, or his voice carries enough, that the others stop and turn. Maybe they can feel the energy in the breeze as well, the lightning crackling between Merle's teeth, ready to spit.

"Love ta," Merle says, grinning lopsidedly, "but yer goin' first."

" _No_ ," Rick says. "I can't go with you guys. You should go back."

"Why not?" It's Andrea who speaks. In the sunlight her eyes are the same color as old sea glass, her hair shining. She's too pale like the color has been sucked out of her. "Look, clearly you have family waiting with us, and we're not that far from here. You can come with us and then come back to the city – we can _help_ you."

"I don't…" Rick sighs, shaking his head. "It's not that I don't want help, or I don't need help. I just can’t…endanger anyone. That's not fair."

"I don't know if you've noticed," Jacqui says, quiet and solemn and gripping the sniper hard enough her knuckles are whited out, "but the dead are walking the Earth. _Fair_ doesn't exactly factor in anymore."

"Look, Officer Friendly, I didn't wanna have to do this but…" Merle reaches into his back pocket and grins, pulling out a pair of handcuffs that flash sharply in the light. Rick cocks his head to one side and narrows his eyes. "If I have to hogtie you and carry you back over my shoulder, you're comin'."

"Where did you get those?" Rick asks, nodding at the cuffs.

"Swiped 'em from your buddy's stash, o'course," Merle replies. Rick lifts his chin, something defiant and hot running down his spine. He will _not_ be shackled by the manacles of War. Merle's face darkens when Rick makes no move towards the fire escape and advances on him – one looming, careful step. He does, after all, only have the hunting knife to hand, and Rick is packing a lot more heat than he is.

"Merle," Rick says lowly. His fingers flex next to his holstered pistol. "Just let me go."

Merle's reply is lost when the door leading to the roof lets out a heavy clanging sound, as though a great weight has been thrown against it. Rick and Merle flinch away from it, weapons raised and ready. Rick feels the chill on the back of his neck spread down his hand to where he's holding his gun, and he thinks he can see the brief white flash of a skull before the door buckles and starts to open. A single hand reaches out, decaying and bloody, and Rick curses.

"Help me close this!" he yells, leaping for the door. Glenn slams into the door next to him as they push the door closed, grunting with effort as the undead pile up in greater numbers on the other side. Rick digs his foot into the cement ground, looking around for some way to secure the door. The door has an arcing handle and there's a pipe running down the outside just a few inches from it.

"Jacqui!" he yells. "Get me the sniper!"

He feels her tap it against his shoulder and reaches back, grabbing it and threading it through the door. He and Glenn move back at once, breathing hard as the door clangs and snaps against the rifle, but the gun seems to do the trick. At least, they won't be getting through it any time soon.

He runs a hand through his sweaty hair and breathes out in relief. Jacqui is watching with wide eyes and, grinning, he pulls the rifle from his bag and hands it to her instead. "Here you go," he says. She takes it with shaking hands.

"I guess the only way is the fire escape," Glenn says quietly.

"No choice but to come with us, then," Merle crows in delight, jangling the handcuffs. Rick briefly considers cuffing Merle to the damn pipe. He's dreamed about this rooftop before. He knows what's supposed to happen here. What might have happened in another life.

But he won't. Daryl would never forgive him, after what he's done, if he'd taken Merle's life as well. He presses his lips together and lifts his eyes to the towering skyscrapers and gives a small nod to War. "Well played," he says to the air, and then heaves another sigh. "I'll come back with you," he says. "But we have to come back. Soon."

"We will," Glenn says with a weak, small smile. He nods when Rick looks at him. "We'll come back."

The door gives an unearthly groan and Rick winces when the sniper starts to crack under the pressure. "We should go," Andrea says in a clipped tone, reaching out and grabbing T-Dog's hand and hauling him towards the fire escape. Glenn leads Jacqui that way and Rick follows behind, Merle bringing up the rear.

Rick halts a little way back, one eye on the door as the rest start to climb down. Merle raises an eyebrow and waits with him, arms folded across his chest. Rick cocks his head to one side, licks his lips, and looks away. He doesn't say anything.

 

 

 

Glenn says they brought vehicles in and hid the supplies inside. They had been on one last run for things like shampoo and bedding in the hotel before Rick heard them getting overrun. The cars are parked in one of the many plots designated as public parking in the city center. There are a number of cars in various stages of abandonment – some that have clearly been there since well before the end of the world, and others that are still fresh, complete with fogged-up windows and the vague black shapes of walkers trapped inside.

In the corner of one, parked a little ways away from the rest of the occupants, is a silver Jeep. As Rick approaches he sees a red Dodge Challenger with a black stripe sitting happily next to the Jeep. He freezes.

_A red car. They came in a red car._

War is trying to lure him back. Of course he is. Rick's hands start to shake and he can't seem to make his feet move, as though they're cemented to the ground.

Merle, who was walking behind him, stops and claps his hand down hard on Rick's injured shoulder. "Everything okay, nutterbutter?" he asks, his voice strangely kind, or at least gentle to Rick's ears. Rick can feel a cold sweat spreading down the back of his neck. It feels like someone is holding his head, so he can't turn it. His eyes are riveted on the car.

"I…" He swallows hard enough that his throat clicks. His eyes are wide and starting to ache. Merle squeezes his shoulder but Rick can't tell if he's meant to be comforting or trying to force Rick onward. "That car."

"Everything okay?" Glenn calls from over the hood of the Jeep. "We should get movin'."

"You heard the Chinaman," Merle says, tightening his grip on Rick's shoulder until Rick hisses, abruptly broken from his trance as pain slices through the cold and makes his knees buckle. He stumbles forward and Merle doesn't let go, but continues to steer him towards the Jeep. Rick is still shaking when he climbs inside next to Andrea. Jacqui is sitting in the driver's seat, Merle in shotgun, and T-Dog and Glenn are in the Challenger.

"A Challenger, a red Challenger," Rick mutters, tapping his palms against his thighs in patterns of six. His fingers curl and he wants to claw at his arms so badly, shed the weight of his skin and his muscle until he's nothing but bone, and take up his scythe and lay waste to his enemies. "Charger. Challenger? _He came in a red car._ "

A red war horse. When Glenn fires up the engine it roars and rumbles and Rick imagines a rearing stallion, brilliant and red, gold in its mane to match the crown on its master's head. Rick's ride, silvery and pale, could never compare in sheer strength or size.

"Are you alright?"

It's Andrea's voice, and when Rick lifts his head she's looking at him the same way Lori did when he first woke up, before he got committed. So wide-eyed and afraid, so unsure. Rick tries not to think about how pale she already is, how much blood she has in her to lose.

He puts his head in his hands and links his fingers behind his neck. "No," he says. "I shouldn't be leaving."

"We'll come back," Andrea replies.

Rick doesn't answer. The Challenger leads the way with a low snarl and the Jeep rattles to life and trundles along after. Rick doesn't watch Atlanta fade away from him and sink into the distance.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh I almost forgot it was Tuesday. Eesh.
> 
> Reunion chapter! \o/

They drive for almost an hour, as best as Rick can tell. He knows there's a clock on the dashboard but the food, weapons and clothing and bedding they've managed to find make the four of them plus everything else a tight fit, and Rick can barely see over his own pack settled in his lap, or the long rifle he'd given Jacqui sticking up in the foot well, and the mountain of pillows sitting between him and Andrea.

He feels exhausted to the bone, defeated in a way he can't quite explain. It feels like a failure, letting these people drive him away. So much so that War had even chosen to mock him with the choice of vehicle.

They crest a small rise and Rick looks out of the window as he spies a quarry. The road leads right into the heart of it and there are large piles of dug-up Earth on all sides, creating a barrier for weather and from the undead. Rick smiles, pleased at the location and the intelligence of those that had chosen to inhabit it. The day is still young and so Rick can see the small nest of trees a little farther away, the pond-like pool of water below the highest rise of rock. There's a collection of tents, an RV, and next to that he sees the red Honda and Merle's truck.

He sits up a little straighter, trying to spy his family amongst the tents and vehicles, but there's no movement. No people.

The Challenger pulls up next to Merle's truck. Daryl's motorcycle isn't on it anymore, but parked behind, dusty and whited out from the quarry rock. Jacqui parks the Jeep beside Glenn's car.

They all pile out of the car as one. Rick breathes in like it's his first breath, shuddering and unsteady. Merle gets out of the Jeep and comes to stand next to him, grinning.

"Not gonna bolt on me, are ya, nutterbutter?"

"Please stop calling me that," Rick mutters, wincing when Merle squeezes his shoulder again. "I think the bloodloss might be getting to me."

"And here you were actin' like you were gonna survive on your own," Merle says, rolling his eyes. Then, he raises his fingers to his lips and let outs a short, sharp whistle. It's loud enough that Rick winces. It's not a signal he recognizes from Daryl's lesson but it seems to do the trick. The door to the RV opens, revealing a short, older man and another blonde woman that Andrea immediately runs to and hugs.

One of the tents rustles and Rick smiles when he sees Carl clambering out. The boy freezes when he sees Rick, his eyes wide. Then, "…Dad?" he asks, like he can't believe it.

"Hey, Carl," Rick breathes, and then Carl runs for him and leaps into a hug. Rick crouches down so that he can pull the boy close to him, Carl's arms wrapping tight around his shoulders. Rick threads one hand through Carl's mess of hair, sucking in a deep breath of the boy's scent. He smells like dust and water. His eyes burn and he realizes he's choking on relief as he hugs his son. Death hadn't told him Carl was dead, but there's knowing he's not, and then feeling the warmth of him and listening to his own whimpering little sobs of happiness.

Rick pulls back and cups Carl's face, brushing his hair and tears from his cheeks and forehead. "How you been?" he asks, voice rough. "How's your mom? Shane?"

"They're here," Carl replies. Right on cue, Shane and Lori emerge from another tent. They both freeze when they see Rick and then Shane lets out a whoop of delight, coming forward and catching Rick's forearm in his hand, hauling him to his feet and then into a hug.

"S'good to see you, brother," Shane murmurs, and Rick wants to weep all over again when he pulls back and sees no trace of War on Shane's face. Lori fades into focus at Shane's side, her smile watery. "We thought you might be dead. I tried calling you back but -."

"The phones died," Rick says.

Lori's eyes trail to Rick's bloody shoulder and widen. "You're hurt," she whispers. She reaches out as though to touch it, her fingers curling just shy of his clothes as though afraid. "Did you get…?"

"No," Rick replies, scratching the back of his neck. "No, I – it wasn't a walker. Promise."

"You look like you've been through a mess, son." The older man steps forward. There's a rifle in his hand and a cap on his head like old men wear to go duck hunting. Rick smiles and takes his hand when the man holds his out to shake. "Name's Dale."

"Rick," Rick replies. "Nice to meet you."

They smile at each other and exchange nods, before Dale heads off to help unload the cars. Rick watches him go, before his eyes fall to Daryl's motorcycle again. He frowns.

"Where's…?" He stops, afraid to say the name. Unbidden, a flash of fear lights up in his heart. He hasn't seen Daryl. If he can't see Daryl, and Daryl doesn't have a bike with him, or a car, he's on foot. And if he's on foot he could get injured and not be able to run. And he could be out of ammo, or stuck somewhere, penned in by those _things_.

But no. Death would have told him. Wouldn't he?

"Where's Daryl?" he says, whispering the words because to say them any louder would break him.

"He's around," Shane replies, too cavalier for the turmoil in Rick's heart and the everyday threat facing them as well. They can't _afford_ to not know where their people are. "Probably sulking somewhere."

"So you don't know where he is?" Rick asks, a little louder now, his voice hard. "Does anyone know where Daryl is?" he asks of the group, turning to address Merle and Andrea who are walking by with weapons and blankets.

The younger blonde woman shrugs. "Hasn't been here long but I know a loner when I see one," she says, and Rick bites his tongue to stop himself telling her how wrong she is. Daryl _craves_ closeness, just like Rick does. "He usually goes out hunting this time of day. You should check behind the trees."

Rick looks that way, narrowing his eyes at the dense little cluster. It must go farther back than he originally assumed.

He presses his lips together and nods, stepping past Shane and Lori and heading towards the trees. None of them try to stop him, but Shane reaches out and lets his fingers brush across Rick's arm and it feels like a 'Good luck'. Rick braces himself for Daryl's anger, worried down to his bones that what he'll find is much worse. Anger he can take – Daryl's anger is righteous and strong and the fire in him warms Rick up from the inside. He would die if that emotion turned cold towards him. More than anything else, he fears Daryl turning his back and shutting off his love.

He's about ten feet from the tree-line when a bolt, brightly fletched with green and white arrows, shoots out of the trees and plants itself just in front of his foot. Rick halts, looking down at it, and smiles. He bends down and carefully twists it out of the softer ground surrounding the trees.

"I guess I deserve that," he says.

"You deserve one between yer fuckin' eyes."

He looks up just in time for Daryl to emerge from the trees. There's a sling of bloody rabbits over one shoulder, a long knife at his belt and the crossbow still held loosely in one hand. His face is dirty, hair a mess of grease, his eyes narrowed with anger. He looks ready for a fight.

Rick hands him the arrow and Daryl yanks it from his hand with a huff. "Nice a'ya to show yer fuckin' face 'round here," he says, his accent thick because of how angry he is. His hand is clenched tightly around the arrow, to the point where Rick feels like it might snap. "I could kill ya, ya son of a bitch."

"You would have died," Rick replies. He sees Daryl's eyes raking over him, appraising him like he's a machine on sale. His hand twitches when he sees Rick's bloody shoulder and the marks on his wrists. "If you'd'a been there, I'd've gotten you killed."

" _You_ could have gotten your _self_ killed!" Daryl hisses, closing the distance between the two of them abruptly and digging the tip of his arrow into Rick's chest. The point isn't sharp enough to slice into him but it aches sharply, especially when Daryl keeps digging it against his sternum like he intends to skewer Rick with it. His eyes are blisteringly cold, the same dark blue-black as the void of space, and Rick shivers. "You _promised_ -."

Abruptly the anger cracks, fracturing under the weight of whatever he's feeling. He pulls the arrow away and his eyes turn bright before he ducks his head, hiding his face behind his hair. "You promised you wouldn't leave," he whispers, harshly.

Rick bites his lip and doesn't argue that, technically, he didn't. "I missed you," he says instead. Daryl lifts his head, surprised and sad. "I felt like…like every part of me was aching. Death mocked me 'cause of it. I almost turned back so many times."

"Why didn't you then?" Daryl challenges.

"They'd'a left Merle behind," Rick says, "or you'd've followed me in. I couldn't risk you, Daryl." Daryl scoffs, his eyes stormy and his jaw clenched. Rick wants to reach for him so badly, pet through his hair and feel the roughness of his clothes and the calluses on his hands, wants to drink in the salt water clinging to his neck.

He wants to touch Daryl so badly. His hand clenches so tightly that it shoots pain up his injured arm and burns in his shoulder. Daryl's eyes are drawn to it again. "Did you do that?" he asks. Not _Were you bitten_ or _What got you_ , because Daryl knows Rick hurts himself more than he hurts others, or lets others hurt him.

Rick nods, something pained catching in his throat. "I…was dreaming, and I woke up with it," he admits, and Daryl presses his lips together and nods as well. "I felt like I was losing my fucking mind. It was so _quiet_ , Daryl."

The weight of Atlanta sits heavily on his shoulders. Rick feels like he might crumble to dust under the shadows of the skyscrapers. He lifts his knuckles to his mouth to stifle the sob, and drops his eyes to Daryl's feet.

His eyes are burning and his vision is blurring.

"It was so fucking _quiet_."

He hears Daryl sigh, and then there's a warm hand on his arm. "Come on," Daryl murmurs. "Let's get you fixed up and fed." Rick hesitates before following, but allows Daryl to lead the way back to camp. He reaches out and curls his fingers in the hem of Daryl's vest and Daryl doesn't protest.

"Dale!" Daryl calls, cupping his hands to make his voice louder and catch the man's attention. "Where you keep the gauze and shit?"

"In the RV, above the sink," comes the reply, and Daryl nods and leads Rick into the RV. The innards of it are nice, if a little worn. The cabinets are a deep, warm reddish-brown, the ceiling a soothing cream color. Daryl makes him sit on one side of the little booth and goes to the kitchenette area.

"You're a damn fool, goin' into a city by yerself," Daryl mutters after a moment of silence. Then, "Take off your shirt. Gotta look at that arm."

Rick smiles, sitting up a little straighter. He pulls the shirt off over his head, hissing when the dried blood and sweat clings to the wounds and peeling the shirt off breaks the scabs and makes him start bleeding anew. The bandages, crude as they were, barely hang onto his skin by a few stubborn patches of blood and dirt.

"Jesus," Daryl mutters, shaking his head and bringing the overly-stuffed first aid kit over to the table. He sits on the opposite side and holds out his hand for Rick to place his arm in. "You're a Goddamn mess, Grimes."

Rick merely hums in answer, fingers curling as Daryl grips his forearm and tears open an antiseptic wipe with his teeth before he starts to rub Rick down, peeling off the old bandage as he does so. The motions are calculated and not overly-gentle, but Rick grits his teeth and bears it. He is, after all, nothing is not deserving of a little of Daryl's anger.

They sit in silence, but it's not the oppressive silence that Altanta had given him. It doesn't weigh on his shoulders and he can't see or hear dogs snarling near him and he doesn't feel like he's suffocating under the weight of it. Daryl wipes his arm down until there's no more blood clinging to the hair or skin there, and then he pulls Rick's arm into a more streamlined position, palm down so that he can see the deep furrows Rick carved into his flesh.

Daryl lets out another huff, the same look on his face as when he found Rick writing on the walls. "How did this happen?" he asks, trailing his fingertips gently along the end of one jagged mark. The touch stings and tingles a little from the antiseptic wipes and Rick forces himself not to flinch. He will never make Daryl think that his touch is unwelcome. Daryl lifts his eyes to Rick's face. "The truth. Not what you're tellin' everyone else."

Rick smiles, rubbing his free hand against the back of his neck as he curls forward and braces his elbow on the table as well. "I…was dreaming," he says, his eyes on the first aid kit. "And in my dream, Famine grabbed me. He has…very sharp fingers, they're like claws. And I dreamed he grabbed me and when I tried to get away, he hurt me. Then I woke up and saw the damage."

Daryl raises an eyebrow. "So, you did it to yourself," he murmurs. His hand flattens, fingers cupping the underside of Rick's bicep so that he can see the wounds more clearly. His other hand is still wrapped around Rick's forearm, thumb at his pulse, and Rick bites his lip.

He nods, feeling oddly ashamed. He feels like he should apologize, but he remains silent as Daryl pulls his touch away with another sigh and sifts through the first aid kid until he finds thin bandages and a safety pin. "We'll wrap it just to make sure nothin' gets in it," he says, starting at Rick's elbow. Rick lets go of his neck with his free hand and holds it there so that Daryl can wrap it. The scratches go to his shoulder so Daryl has to stand eventually, circling carefully around the small table until he's standing by Rick's shoulder and wrapping the bandage carefully around.

Rick closes his eyes, soaking in the warmth and the silence. The RV smells like old kitchen dinners and moisture, and Daryl himself stinks of the woods. They're earthy, living scents that serve to ground and focus him away from the pain in his shoulder and the turmoil in his chest. He tucks the end of the bandage under the part where it's wrapped around his bicep and Daryl fastens the top with the safety pin.

"I'll get you another shirt," Daryl says, taking his bloody one away.

Rick reaches out and catches him by the wrist. "Don't leave me," he whispers.

Daryl looks at him like he can't decide whether he would rather punch Rick or comfort him. "Are you fucking serious?" he mutters without much heat. "Why should I stay when you won't?"

"I had to go," Rick says, raising his eyes. He hopes Daryl can see how sad and sorry he is for that. "You know I had to. You know what I gotta do and – and I can't do it if I lose you, or if I put you in danger, or -." He swallows and squeezes his hand around Daryl's wrist. "You gotta believe me. War was… _there_. His dogs were…"

Rick stops, the words caught in his throat, and Daryl sighs and turns back just long enough to gently touch Rick's uninjured shoulder. "I'll be right back," he says. "I'll get you some food and clothes. I promise. I'll be right back."

Daryl waits until Rick loosens his hold on his wrist, and then he leaves the RV with Rick's bloodied shirt. Rick closes his eyes and tries to listen. There's the sounds of footprints in gravel outside, a soft laugh that he thinks might be Glenn from somewhere behind the RV. He hears Andrea talking to another woman, their muffled voices higher than the other sounds. It's not quiet out here, not in the way War's oppressive city had been.

He jumps when the door opens again and Daryl comes back inside with the backpack Rick took. He plops it on Rick's lap and fishes the rolled-up bag of chips from the side pocket. "Payment," he says with a smirk, and Rick grins back at him as Daryl unrolls the bag and starts to eat, and Rick roots around inside for his clean shirt and pulls it on over his head.

"How long have you guys been here?" he asks when they sit in silence for another moment.

Daryl shrugs one shoulder. "Day you left, Shane kept driving and we met up with these guys sometime in the afternoon," he mutters. "Merle was awake by then, they'd'a probably told us to hit the road if Shane hadn't been there. Guy's a real smooth talker."

"He was always better at making friends than I was," Rick says with an agreeing nod. "I doubt they'd have taken half as well to me."

"I like you better'n I like Shane," Daryl says, shrugging again. "How'd they find you? How'd they convince you to come back?"

Rick licks his lips, remembering how earnestly his soul had ached for Daryl while he'd been away. "The first night I was in Atlanta, the phone rang," he says, and Daryl raises an eyebrow. "At first I thought it was just…in my head. It was Glenn, and he said he'd seen me coming into the hotel and was trying all the rooms, and wanted me to join him and his group. I told him no, because I still had to find War. Then…" He drums his fingers in an anxious pattern on the table, thumb tapping twice to make a riff of six beats. "I kept hunting. I…I thought I kept seeing things, and feeling things. I felt like War was watching me, and I kept seeing his dogs, or hearing them."

"Sounds intense," Daryl murmurs, like he can't think of anything else to say.

Rick nods. "I tried calling again but the phones were out by the time I tried," he says. He doesn't talk about the tricks War played on him, the way the horseman twisted his emotions and his thoughts to bring him to his knees. He doesn't tell Daryl how quickly he felt his mind was leaving him. "And I was sitting and thinking about where to go next, when I heard gunshots." Daryl blinks at him, head tilted to one side. "I ran to help, and once I got inside I heard whistles. _Your_ whistles. I thought…I thought it was you. I ran as fast as I could and I found Glenn, and Andrea and Jacqui and T-Dog. They were fighting a pack of walkers and I helped and I kept hearing the whistle and I thought you were trapped somewhere, or in danger, so I ran and I found Merle instead."

"Sorry to disappoint," Daryl says, his voice gaining an edge to it now. "Damn fool went off to Atlanta and wouldn't hear otherwise. Forced me to stay to look after your sorry-ass family."

Rick frowns. "Neither of you should have come to Atlanta," he says.

"What are you so afraid of, Rick?" Daryl asks. "You're…if what you're saying is true, you're _literally_ Death. You can't die."

"I'm not afraid of dying."

"Then _what_?"

Rick's fingers curl and he looks down at them. There's still blood under his nails. He wonders how hard he'll have to scrub and pick to get rid of it all. "I'm not afraid of dying," he says quietly. "But I'm not the only one who could die, Daryl." Daryl huffs, and Rick sighs. "You don't understand."

"Not really, no," Daryl replies, finishing the sentence with a loud crunch as he eats another chip. He pulls the sides of the mostly-empty bag apart so that the front splits in a clean line. Rick shivers and tries not to think about swords. "But I'm trying to."

Rick licks his lips. "Lori…when we were in the house, before you and I left, Lori talked to me about…how I was. Between the coma and the asylum." Daryl looks at him, eyebrows raised. "And I know she was right. Sometimes I don't… _see_ people." He looks up, meeting Daryl's eyes. His hair has been pushed to one side, sticky and stiff with mud and sweat, and Rick can see his face clearly. He can see the tension in Daryl's jaw and the slight squint when he looks at Rick, assessing and tense. "And I can't risk having people around me when I can't see them. If I can't see you, I can't protect you. I…" He looks down at his hands again and clenches his jaw. "I _won't_ have your blood on my hands. Or theirs. I _won't_."

Daryl is silent for a moment, his eyes on Rick's face. Rick can feel his gaze there but can't force himself to lift his eyes. Daryl's silence feels like the weight of a mountain settled on his shoulders and Rick is no stronger than a mouse under it, silently crushed. He bites his lower lip and curls his fingers again and resists the urge to scratch at his wrists.

Finally, Daryl says quietly; "I always feel like you see me." Rick looks up, startled. Of all the things he expected Daryl to say, that wasn't one of them. Daryl's expression hasn't changed. It sounds like the words are being forced out of him, as though he's not sure what he means to say but is determined to say it and hope that Rick will understand.

Rick licks his lips and scratches the back of his neck. It stings when he does that. Daryl sighs through his nose and eats another chip, before he folds the halves of the bag back together and rolls it back up. He hands it to Rick, who takes it and shoves it back into the side pocket of his bag.

"Don't ever pull something like that again," Daryl says as he stands. Rick nods. "No." Daryl reaches out and grabs Rick's chin, forcing his head up, forcing Rick to meet Daryl's eyes. As they are, with Daryl's head so high above him, Rick feels small and unworthy. "Promise me," Daryl demands, his fingers digging hard into Rick's cheeks, into his jaw. "Say the words. _You won't leave me again_. No half-lies, no fancy words. _Promise_."

Rick reaches up and catches Daryl's hand, pulling it away from his face. Daryl doesn't resist, and lets Rick stand so that they're at the same height. Rick licks his lips and raises Daryl's hand, cupping it in both of his own, and nods.

"I promise," he says. Truthfully, he doesn't know if he has the strength to leave Daryl again. Next to him, in this quiet room and stagnant air, his soul feels content, a fox holed up in its burrow with its mate. "Where you go, I'll follow."

Daryl smiles, the expression warm. "Good," he says, gruffly, pulling his hand away from Rick's. "Now let's go back outside 'fore my brother makes an ass of himself or anything else interesting happens. It's about time for dinner, anyway."

Rick nods, grabbing his bag while Daryl grabs his crossbow, and they head outside.

 

 

 

The quarry extends farther than Rick originally thought. At some point it flooded, creating a large pool of crystal-clear water in the base of it, and it's huge. The wide-open spaces irritate him in a way he can't quite explain. He feels too exposed. There are trees all along the ridge of the lake and the walls that run up to where the RV and cars are parked. It helps a little, but not as much as he would like. He can't shake the vision of those bodies, wading into the water until it reached their eyes, and then consumed by the walkers emerging from the trees.

He's startled out of his thoughts when Daryl approaches. He knows it's Daryl coming and knows Daryl meant for him to hear. He turns his head and lifts a palm to squint against the fading sunlight, and smiles when Daryl walks forward so that he blocks out the sun and Rick can see him more clearly.

"Brought food," Daryl says, offering a bowl to him. It's a bright red and made of thick plastic, and steams gently as Rick takes it and cradles it above his knees. He gives a soft hum of thanks and smiles when the gravel shifts and Daryl sits down next to him. He's cross-legged and Rick lets his leg fall out so that it rests over one of Daryl's knees.

Rick takes a bite. It's a thick stew, with rice and meat he would guess is either rabbit or squirrel. "This is good," he says. "Who made it?"

"Lori," Daryl replies. "I'll say this about her; she can cook."

Rick nods. "That she can," he agrees, taking another bite. It's salty and delicious and feels warm right down to his stomach when he swallows. He hadn't realized how much he missed warm food until now. He wonders how long this will last, until the pool dries up or the walls fall or the trees stop providing protection and hiding. How long until they will have to move on. "What have they told the rest?" he asks around another mouthful. He turns the spoon so that the bowl of it matches the shape of his tongue, hand hanging on the end. Daryl looks at him and makes a questioning noise and Rick pulls the spoon out of his mouth. "About me. About my…problems."

Daryl huffs. "Hasn't really come up," he says, toying absently with the stew still left in his bowl. He lifts it up to lick a trickle of grease from the outside before letting it sit on his lap again. "They know Carl's your son, they know Shane and Lori are married, and they told 'em you went off on your own to Atlanta. _That_ was a fun one."

"How so?"

"Well, trying to reason why we let you go, is all. Judgy people, these folk. Wouldn't dream of lettin' someone off on their own. Glenn and them went off the next morning and Merle went with 'em, jittery as he still was. Can't reckon why."

Rick hums. "I think I do," he says. After all, Merle had told him as much. "I think he was afraid that if he didn't go, you would. But if he went, you'd stay behind where it's safer, I guess. That's what I think, anyway."

Daryl snorts – it's an ugly, bitter sound. "Asshole," he says, but Rick thinks he might hear a small shred of affection in the word.

Rick huffs a laugh. "Well, if it weren't for him, I might have never found you again," he says. "So I have him to thank for that."

Daryl nods, once. "You didn't have to leave," he says quietly, with an edge too sharp to feel cutting in. Rick curls his fingers tightly around his bowl and forces himself not to look anywhere else but the bites of food remaining. The bowl is burning hot against his hands and is starting to hurt. "I know you say you had to, but you didn't _have_ to. We could have gone with you."

Rick bites his lip. "But what if I stopped seeing you?" he asks. "What if I had a nightmare, and ran outside right into a pack of them, and one of you got killed 'cause of it? What if War had come for us?"

"What if, what _if_ ," Daryl growls, turning to glare at Rick, and jabs him forcefully in the side. Rick yelps and flinches away from Daryl, sending him a glare in return. "Fuck your _what if_ 's."

"It ain't that simple, Daryl."

"The Hell it ain't." Rick opens his mouth to protest again, but goes silent when Daryl fixes him with another glare. Daryl's anger feels cold, this time, like an ice hook under his ribs, piercing his heart. He's scared to breathe.

After a moment, Daryl subsides with another small sigh and takes a bite of his food. He tucks his knee under Rick's thigh and Rick relaxes slowly, like a skittish animal. "I'm sorry," Daryl says after a moment. "I hate…being mad at you. I don't want to be."

"When you're angry, I feel it," Rick replies. He doesn't want to sound like he's guilting Daryl into anything. Emotions are valid, no matter what they are. "It's like…pressure, on my lungs. I can't ignore it when you're angry." He snorts, shaking his head. "Lori hated that. My compulsion to fix things."

Daryl smirks. "You're startin' to sound like Miriam."

Rick hums in agreement, thinking back to the group therapist. He wonders if she made it to the undead point, or if she was eaten alive. "I never liked her," he says lightly. Daryl makes a curious sound, encouraging him on; "She always made me feel like I was dangerous. She was too afraid."

"Well, I mean, can ya blame her? She was like ninety pounds soaking wet and you killed three people."

"If she didn't feel comfortable around us, she shouldn't have applied there. Least of all for group therapy." Rick sighs, finishing off his stew and setting the bowl to one side. Daryl moves so that he silhouettes it around his own and holding both and takes another bite. Rick folds his hands together to avoid the urge to scratch at his wrist. "I met a woman, in Atlanta," he says. "She made me think of you."

"Oh?"

"She didn't _remind_ me of you, or anything," Rick says. He sighs, looking down at his folded hands. "I killed her."

Daryl turns to look at him again, a mixture of what looks like disappointment and anger warring on his face. "You killed someone _else_?" he says, the words harsh and quiet. He even leans in, as though fearing being overheard. " _Why_?"

"She asked me to," Rick replies calmly, turning his head so that he can meet Daryl's eyes. With the way that Daryl is leaning in, they're so close. Rick can see the way Daryl's pupils change as they stare at each other, growing outward. "She was afraid, and was going to commit suicide, and I offered to do it for her. She was religious."

Daryl blinks at him, sitting up straight again and deflating with another huff. "And why did that make you think of me?"

"Because you wouldn't have let me," Rick says. "You'd have tried to get her to come with us, or something. Convinced her there was something worth living for."

Daryl hums, lifting a hand to his mouth to bite at a cuticle. "Maybe," he says. "But dead weight's dead weight. Ain't gonna drag some fool around if all they wanna do is die." Rick laughs, and Daryl turns back to look at him. "What's so funny?"

Rick shakes his head, unable to quite explain the elation running through him at Daryl's words. "I just…missed you, is all," he settles on after a moment. Daryl's cheeks turn pink and he goes back to chewing on his cuticles. "So," Rick adds, sensing Daryl's need to change the subject before it gets too intimate for either of them, "what do you make of this group? That Shane latched onto?"

Daryl looks over his shoulder, briefly, squinting against the sunset as he looks back towards the cars and RV. "Dale's cool," he says finally, turning back to join Rick in looking out to the water. "Older guy, obviously, but he knows his shit. Used to be some kinda doctor, so that's useful. Haven't talked to the blondes much but the older one's kind of a bitch. Jacqui and her husband and kids keep to themselves. T-Dog and Glenn are…good. I trust 'em."

"And everyone gets along well enough?" Rick asks.

Daryl nods, sending a look Rick's way out of the corner of his eye. "Why?"

"When I leave again, I need to make sure my family's safe. If you're not there to take care of them I need to know I can trust these people. And I trust your instincts. So, I needed to know."

Daryl nods again, chewing on his nail until it breaks off. He lowers his hand and spits the nail onto the grass to the other side of him, before pushing himself to his feet with a sigh. Rick follows suit, dusting his hands off on his jeans as he follows Daryl back towards the main part of the camp. There's a vague seating arrangement packed between three of the cars so that they flank the edges, the fourth section left open for a quick retreat. On the other side of the cars and the RV are the tents. From there, the hill slopes downwards towards the lake, and then into the trees. Rick can see strings of cans put up between the cars and around the tents and he smiles.

Almost the entire group is gathered in the circle, around a small campfire. Rick takes the bowls from Daryl and sets them to one side to wash when there's more daylight, and takes a seat next to Carl, who is sitting next to Lori. Daryl takes Rick's other side, their legs don't touch but Daryl presses his ankle against Rick's and it feels like an embrace. Rick smiles.

They sit in silence, hungrily eating the stew Lori made. Rick cocks his head to one side and listens to them chewing. Merle is across the fire, bent over his bowl in the way many prisoners adapt to, to guard their food and themselves. Merle lifts his head long enough for Rick to nod at him, before he snorts and goes back to eating.

After a moment, Lori clears her throat. "Rick," she says, and reaches across the corner of the campsite to lay a hand on his arm. When Rick looks at her, her eyes are so big and dark that for a moment he finds himself thinking of Death. "Did you manage to…do what you needed to?"

She's trying to be supportive, and worried, and trying desperately to make sure no one knows how crazy he really is. Rick lifts his arm so that she has to stop touching him, curling his arm and scratching the back of his neck. It still stings whenever he touches there. He thinks of the red cars and tries not to let himself panic.

"No," he replies. "I'll need to go back. Soon."

"…We have enough supplies to last us a while." It's the younger blonde woman. Rick doesn't remember getting her name. She's clutching a necklace tightly in her small fist. Behind her, the shadows move, and a cloaked figure brushes its bony fingers across her neck. Rick swallows. "Why do you need to go back there?"

"I need to find someone," Rick says. His eyes aren't on her face anymore, but behind her at head-height. He can't make out Death's face amongst the fire smoke but goosebumps have broken out all along his arms and he is fighting himself, telling himself not to shiver.

"Right," Glenn says, nodding. He's sitting next to Jacqui and her family, cross-legged on the floor where the rest of them are on repurposed bench seats, folding chairs, logs and large stones. He looks natural there, one with the Earth. Rick tries not to think about how long he might last before he sinks into it and never comes back up. "Who is it you're looking for, exactly?"

Rick feels Lori's and Shane's eyes on his face. Daryl doesn't look at him because Daryl doesn't fear the truth. Rick shivers and pulls his hands together, tucks them between his thighs, bites his lower lip. "My…" The shadow behind the young blonde moves, slides over to him. Can anyone else feel it? No one seems to be reacting. He hears a soft chuckle. "My…brother."

"Brother," Glenn repeats, eyebrow raised.

Rick nods. "Yeah. He's…he's in there. I know he is."

Shane and Lori deflate like popped balloons. Carl looks at him, frowning in confusion because he knows his father doesn't have a brother in Atlanta, but remains quiet. If there is anyone with suspicions, none of them voice it.

Then, T-Dog huffs a laugh. "Well, shit, man, if he's half as crazy as you are he's either dead or ruling the place."

Rick fights back a smile, and tries not to think about just how close to the truth T-Dog's words are.

"We'll help you," Glenn offers, nodding in agreement with T-Dog's words. "I mean…I couldn't imagine having a brother in there, not knowing what happened to him. I'll come with you when you go again."

Rick nods and offers a small smile in thanks. He tries not to think about how he'll have to explain murdering his 'brother' in cold blood once he finds the man. He digs his nails tightly into his wrists and scratches up until he hits the bandage on his arm. Daryl shoots him a warning, concerned look, and that's all they say until the group split off into their respective tents and Dale takes watch on the top of the RV.

T-Dog has his own tent, and Merle seems to have taken residence in the bed of his truck with a re-purposed collection of sheets and blankets strung up to protect him from the elements. Jacqui and her family sleep in the RV and the two blondes – sisters, Rick finally finds out, Andrea and Amy – go inside with them, although Rick doubts there's enough room in it to sleep all of them. Glenn takes watch with Dale but sits on the hood of his car instead, rifle loaded and sitting lax on his lap.

Shane, Lori and Carl go into the tent they had first crawled from, and for lack of anything else better Rick tucks his fingers into Daryl's shirt and follows as Daryl leads him towards what Daryl has managed to salvage for his own bedding, just behind Shane and Lori's tent. There are blankets and the laundry bags on the floor, it's not so much a tent as it is a slanted piece of tarp that extends from one wall of the quarry to the floor in a triangle shape.

They both stop outside the flap-like opening that an old shirt serves the purpose of, and Daryl shifts his weight and bites his lower lip.

Rick sighs and lets go of his shirt. "I'll stay up," he says.

Daryl looks at him, shifts his weight again. He seems jittery, like he's the one who has been coming down from a high and not his brother. "There's enough room inside for two," he replies, biting his lower lip again. He looks at Rick from under his hair. "Designed it that way."

"Oh?" Rick asks, and hopes that Daryl hears the tone of his voice and understands it to be relieved and not teasing.

Daryl nods. "I promised I wouldn't make you sleep away from me," he says, and Rick suddenly can't breathe with how hot and tight his lungs have become. He wants to pull Daryl into his space and keep him there until they melt together. "But if you wanna stay up, I get it."

"No," Rick says, and reaches out. His fingers catch in Daryl's shirt again and he feels like a wounded animal when he speaks; "No. I never want to be away from you again."

In the low light, Rick can just make out the way Daryl's cheeks bulge when he smiles, before he tilts his head to try and hide it. "In ya get, then," he huffs, gesturing for Rick to crawl inside. Rick goes to his hands and knees and pushes the shirt aside and crawls in. The inside is surprisingly spacious and he can see the weapons and clothes he left behind piled in a corner. He smiles when he sees it, knowing now that Daryl never truly intended to reject him, to keep him away. He moves to one side and ducks down so he doesn't disturb the tarp, flattening himself under the lower part of the triangle as Daryl slides in next to him. There's enough padding on the ground that the gravel doesn't dig and Rick gives a happy hum, rolling onto his side so that he's facing Daryl, with his head away from the entrance.

In Daryl's tent, it is completely dark and still. The only sounds coming from within is their breathing as it slowly starts to even out. It's a comfortable kind of silence, warm and damp like a tomb. Rick loves it. He sighs and closes his eyes.

"This is nice."

Daryl snorts. "If you say so."

"I mean…" Rick sighs again, curling his fingers into the laundry bag he's lying on. He moves his other arm to pillow his head. "Being…still. It's the good kind of quiet right now. I feel calm."

Daryl hums quietly in answer. He sounds tired. Rick smiles and curls up a little more tightly, happy in the warmth of the makeshift tent, when suddenly he hears a ragged-sounding breath. It's close, way too close for comfort if it's something dangerous, and he goes tense.

Daryl lets out a soft laugh. "Relax," he says. Rick hears the sound again, followed by a quiet, higher moan. "It's Shane and Lori."

Rick cocks his head to one side to listen. He's shared enough dorms with Shane to know what the man sounds like during his most intimate moments, and of course he knows what Lori sounds like during sex as well. Now that he's listening, and that he understands, he recognizes the sounds perfectly.

"Oh," he mutters.

"Does that bother you?" Daryl asks, his voice thick with amusement. "They go at it every fuckin' night, too. We can move the tent away in the mornin' if it bothers you."

"I don't care," Rick says, "but I hope Carl doesn't hear _or_ see that."

Daryl huffs another laugh, and Rick hears him rolling onto his side so that they're facing each other. Rick resists the urge to reach out and map his face in the darkness, trace the bridge of his nose and the line of his lips. His fingers curl into his palms so that he doesn't try to test the give of his arms, or his legs, or feel the way his chest rises when they're pressed tightly together.

"You got fucked up priorities," Daryl says. Another soft groan breaks the next silence and he laughs again. "But they usually wait 'til Carl's asleep, I think. Gotta have _some_ basic human decency, that's what Lori says anyway."

"You're in a good mood," Rick notes quietly, smiling. He feels Daryl's joy like water, coating his skin, slicking down his spine like a stream running down a mountainside.

"Maybe misery loves company," Daryl shoots back, rolling onto his back again. This time it's Rick's turn to laugh, and he follows suit and rolls onto his back, one hand pillowed behind his head. He thinks back to the hotel room he stayed in that one night in Atlanta, how vast and empty and cold the space next to him was. Despite the comfort, the warmth, the running water, he knows he would happily trade a thousand nights like that for one night such as this.

"Goodnight, Daryl," Rick murmurs.

"'Night, Rick."


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! Despite my best intentions and efforts, I caught up with myself in terms of what I had written and was posting. I'm desperately hoping I will be able to keep up with myself but I want to apologize in advance if the posting schedule or length of chapters has to change.

The next morning, the sound of another car wakes Rick up. He rolls over and finds that Daryl is no longer in the tent with him. Frowning, he checks the bandages around his arm and makes sure his wounds didn't break and bleed, and that he didn't do any additional damage to himself in the night. He finds nothing – even his neck and wrists feel better. His whole body is more relaxed than it's felt in a while, even sleeping on such unforgiving ground. He's sure he can blame his rest on Daryl's proximity, and the thought makes him smile as he shucks out of his dirty clothes and pulls new ones on, securing his jeans with his holster and gun belt. He leaves the dirty clothes in the corner where his feet were while he slept, and then crawls outside.

He spies Shane first and pushes himself to his feet, dusting off his thighs as he goes to join Shane in looking out. Down by the lake he can see Lori, Andrea and Amy, and Glenn sitting. They're looking out towards the entry to the quarry, aware of the noise.

On the RV, Dale is ready with his rifle. T-Dog is posted behind one of the cars. Only Shane stands out in the open, immediately visible.

"They trust you," Rick says quietly, with a nod of greeting. Shane jumps as though he'd been snuck up on. Rick smiles at him and tries to appear relaxed.

Shane bites his tongue and nods, squinting as he rubs a hand through his hair and walks out beyond the cars so that he'll be the first in line should the car keep driving, or someone start shooting. Rick walks on his right, shoulder to shoulder. He doesn't follow.

"Figure I look mean enough to warn off any bad blood," Shane says with a grin. He looks tired, like he didn't sleep well. Rick remembers staying awake for a little while, but he's pretty sure that Shane and Lori were still having sex when he fell asleep. Shane slings an arm around Rick's shoulders and pulls him in, gentle against Rick's injured shoulder. "And with two of us, no sonuvabitch will want trouble, huh brother?"

Rick laughs, letting his hand rest casually at his hip next to his gun as they come to a stop at the back of Glenn's red Challenger. Rick tries not to think about the last time an unidentified car was coming at him, how they'd blown the tires and the car had rolled into the grass verge. How one conscious survivor had crawled out and shot him straight through the torso.

He bites his lip and tries not to feel uneasy. The sun is rising and puts the car in a silhouette, blinding them. Rick and Shane raise their hands to shield their eyes as the car rolls to a stop a few yards away. The engine doesn't stop running but a door opens, revealing a hulking figure of a man.

The man cups his hands and shouts; "You guys friendly?"

Shane grins. "We are if you are," he says back.

The man nods, and then ducks down to kill the engine. From the other side two doors open, the passenger and the back door, and reveal a feminine shadow and a shorter one coming close to her side. The trio walk forward and, once the sun is high enough and doesn't sit directly behind them, Rick can make out their faces.

The short shadow is a little girl, younger than Carl, he would guess, with wispy blonde hair and big, glass-green eyes. The woman he guesses is her mother guides her with an arm around her shoulders. She's a woman with grey, short-cropped hair, deep smile lines and a furrow in her brow that looks permanent. The man is bald, thick with muscle and fat around the middle, and greets them with a grin. He's wearing a baseball cap that he takes off, wiping the sweat off his head with the back of his hand. Rick is reminded of Merle, suddenly – there's something very…addict-like about the way he moves. Something pent-up and angry. Rick's hand tightens on his hip until his knuckles turn white to resist the urge to reach for his gun.

"Glad to have found you guys," the man says, stepping forward and holding his hand out to shake. Shane shakes it but Rick can't bring himself to. The man, to his credit, doesn't seem to mind. "Name's Ed. This is my wife, Carol, our girl Sophia."

"I'm Shane," Shane says, then jerks his head towards Rick. "My friend Rick, we got a lot of others. It only you three? You come from a group?"

Ed shakes his head. "Nah, been flyin' solo since it started. Came from the North of ATL. Fuckin' insane."

"I bet," Shane says with a nod. "You got weapons? Food?"

"We have some," Carol says quietly, her smile small and pained. "Really we just need a place to rest for a while."

"Maybe a long while, if you and your group are amiable," Ed says with another small smile. He looks too friendly, Rick thinks. Too good at saying what he's saying. Rick bites his lip and shifts his weight and hopes his distrust doesn't show on his face.

"C'mon, put your car with ours, we'll get you squared away," Shane says with another nod, and Ed nods back at him and heads back to the car. Carol and Sophia stay behind. Rick looks up when he hears gravel crunching and spies Lori with Carl, and smiles.

He steps to one side as Lori and Carl approach and he sees Carol and Sophia relax a little. He moves away and allows the women and children to find comfort in each other. He finds Daryl sitting behind the RV, working on the fletching of his arrows, and comes to a stop next to him with a sigh.

"New guys?" Daryl asks, his words garbled as he bites at the end of an arrow, yanking it back to separate the iron tip from the wooden shaft. He takes the point and sets it in a pile by his thigh.

Rick wipes a hand over his face, leaning his shoulder against the RV, one foot cocked so his toe is against the ground. "Family," he says. "Father, mother, little girl 'bout Carl's age."

Daryl grunts. "What'd'ya make of 'em?"

Rick sighs again. "I don't know," he says quietly. "I don't know if I can trust my judgement anymore."

Daryl huffs a laugh. "That means you don't like 'em," he says.

"I don't like the father," Rick replies. "He seems like trouble. He's too… _polite_."

He sees Daryl stop and look up at him out of the corner of his eye. When Rick turns his head, Daryl's eyebrows are raised, his hair pushed back from his face. He's wearing a sleeveless blue shirt and dark denim, and his eyes almost glow in the shadow of the RV.

"You don't like a guy 'cause he's too polite?" he asks, voice thick with humor.

Rick snorts, grinning down at the ground. "It's the same kinda polite snitches are when they know they're caught," he says, crossing his arms over his chest. He sighs again and tilts his head back, staring up at the sky. "He's trouble. Or he's gonna be."

Daryl clears his throat, toying idly with the pile of arrowheads by his thigh. "You, ah, feelin' alright?" he asks. Rick looks down at him and Daryl tilts his head until it cracks before he relaxes with a sigh. He doesn't seem embarrassed, just uncomfortable. "You were talkin' in your sleep, is all."

Rick frowns. "I don't remember dreaming," he says, "but I can't imagine I said anything I wouldn't mind being heard."

Daryl shakes his head. "Nah, wasn't anything embarrassing. You just…seemed really scared. Was worried you were gonna bolt from the tent or something."

Rick frowns. "I've been having dreams about the horsemen, recently," he says. "I walk and I'm in a field, and they're all gathered around a fire and talking. Those are the ones that frighten me the most, I think."

Daryl hums. "I wish I could help."

"I don't know if I can be helped," Rick murmurs, kicking at a loose stone. "If I'm crazy, then it might never be satisfied. If I'm not crazy, then…then I just have to kill the horsemen." He laughs. "Should be simple enough, right?"

Daryl sighs, nodding. "When did you want to head out, by the way? Back to Atlanta?"

Rick looks down at the lake, huffing out another breath. "Dawn," he says with a nod. "We'll leave at dawn."

"Takin' anyone with us?" Daryl asks, and Rick smiles when he hears Daryl use the 'us', glad that he's no longer questioning if he's going with Rick.

Rick shrugs one shoulder. "Anyone who wants to come, I guess," he replies. "Glenn, probably. Not…Not Shane, though." He sucks in a deep breath and shakes his head. "I need to know that what I'm seeing is real and he…I can't stop thinking that he's War. I can't risk taking him into the city if War decides to play one of his tricks."

"Okay." Daryl pushes himself to his feet, arrowheads carefully gathered in a red handkerchief, the shafts of his arrows gripped loosely in his other hand. He reaches out and pushes his fist against Rick's chest and looks him in the eye. "Trust your gut. I'll be right with ya," he says, before he lets his hand drop. "I'm gonna go check the snares. Keep outta trouble, y'hear?"

Rick nods and smiles, before he watches Daryl go and disappear into the trees. He leaves the RV and grabs his dirty clothes from the tent before he goes down to the lake, figuring he can make himself useful and help with the laundry and dishes until Daryl comes back or he finds something else to occupy his time.

 

 

 

Night falls as night often does when followed by a long day: harshly, not so much seeping into darkness as plummeting across the sky to the horizon. The temperature drops dramatically and soon the group is huddled around their little campfire, eating another round of soup – this time a mass amalgamation of chicken noodle pilfered from the facility's kitchens. Rick can't help grinning whenever he catches Daryl's eye.

They talk more than they did the night before. Ed is a chatty character, his smiles saccharine and his questions and conversation interesting. Rick dislikes him intensely, although he has yet to figure out why. He can't help feeling like he's a wolf that's seen a coyote in his pack, trying to pass itself off as one of his own. He fights the urge to growl whenever he looks at the man.

When the conversation lulls and his bowl is empty, he sets it down by his foot and stretches his arms, wincing when his torn one stings and tugs at the bandages.

Ed notices, and nods to it. "One of them things get ya?" he asks, sympathetic, as though he doesn't know that any scratch or bite from a walker is a death sentence. Maybe he doesn't know. Maybe he's never had to find out.

Rick shakes his head and curls up on himself as the group turns their gazes on him. "Not a walker," he says. He folds his fingers together tightly to resist the urge to scratch at his wrists or the back of his neck. "I wouldn't stay if a walker got me."

"Why not?" It's Amy who asks, her eyes wide and reflecting the firelight brilliantly.

Rick bites his lip. "Any scratch, any bite from a walker will infect you," he says, looking down at the ground between his boots, then at the heart of the fire, then finding Daryl's face a few seats down from him, then back to the ground. "You'll…get a fever, if you don't die outright. Then you'll go. Then you'll come back, and be one'a them. Only way to put 'em down for good is a head wound."

"Jesus," Lori breathes, shooting Rick a meaningful look. "Let's talk about something a little more lighthearted, alright?"

Rick sighs, and sends her a small, tired smile. "Sorry," he says. Then, "Daryl and I are going to Atlanta tomorrow, for anyone who still wanted to help me look for my…brother. We'll be leaving at dawn."

"Cool," Glenn says around a mouthful of soup. He sees Merle shoot Daryl a look, but Daryl doesn't meet his gaze. Merle looks to Rick instead, something dark on his face before he ducks down and keeps eating.

"You're going… _into_ the city?" Carol asks, toying with her spoon in a worried, jittery way. "Why on Earth -?"

"I'm looking for my brother," Rick says quietly. "I know he's in there. I have to find him."

"Alone?"

"I'm goin' with," Daryl says, licking a line of broth from his fingers, and Glenn, sitting next to him, nods as well. "We'll keep the group small, use the phones while they still work. We'll be alright."

"But surely -."

"Carol." Ed's voice is sharp, scolding. His face goes dark and Carol goes rigid for a brief moment. Then, Ed smiles. "I'm sure these guys know what they're doing. Don't go worryin' about that."

It's a moment so brief Rick might have thought he imagined it, but he's been inside of his own head enough to know what is real and what isn't, and he knows without a doubt that Ed is not someone that can be trusted. He's mean, and dark, and cold – and not the comforting cold of Death. This cold bites, whips around them like winter wind. Rick bares his teeth and then rubs his hand over his face to hide the expression.

"We should get some shut-eye," he says after a moment, pushing himself to his feet. "I can take a watch."

"No, you sleep," Shane says, standing also and dusting off his knees. "I'll watch with Dale and we'll swap out. You, and whoever's going to Atlanta need to sleep."

Rick nods, clambering over the group to get out of the one way from the campfire and heading towards his and Daryl's tent. He can hear Daryl following behind, and then heavier footsteps hurrying to catch up.

"Hey, lil bro! Wait up a second!"

Rick doesn't stop, although he desperately wants to look back and wait for Daryl. But he's sure that whatever Merle is about to say to him, Daryl would rather Rick not hear it. So he continues on and climbs into the tent and makes himself comfortable and waits.

He can hear Merle and Daryl talking, their voices murmured but fast. Agitated. Daryl's anger crawls along his skin like fire ants. He can _feel_ it, and picks absently at his bandages to fight the urge to crawl back out and put himself between Daryl and his brother. He knows Daryl can handle himself, and he's had a lifetime of handling Merle, but something protective and hot sharpens its point and stings the insides of Rick's lungs so harshly, repeatedly like a scorpion barb.

Finally the shirt closing the tent is ripped to one side and Daryl slides in, anger and agitation sitting on his shoulders like heavy weights. Even in the darkness, in the silence, Rick can feel his emotions like physical things he can reach out and touch. He wants to pet them, soothe Daryl until his hackles lower and his growling stops.

"Good conversation?" he asks when Daryl lays down and his breathing starts to get even.

Daryl huffs, and Rick hears rustling as he lifts his hand and bites at his cuticles. "Could say that," he says. Then, he sighs. "Merle doesn't want me going with you, not without him, at least."

"He cares for you very deeply," Rick whispers. This conversation feels like one that should be whispered. "He's very protective of you."

"He's a damn nuisance is what he is," Daryl says. "I can take care of my damn self, thanks. Didn't seem to give a shit when he was shootin' up and landin' himself in the slammer. Don't give a fuck what he thinks. _Or_ what he does."

Rick turns onto his side so that he can look in Daryl's direction, even though he can't see the man in the darkness. "Is he going to come with us, then?" he asks.

Daryl sighs. "Probably."

Rick frowns. "You sound agitated, still," he says.

Daryl makes a soft, embarrassed sound. "S'nothin'," he murmurs. Then there's another rustle as he turns onto his side. He sighs again and Rick can tell from the sound that he's turned to face away from Rick, hiding his face even though they can't see each other. "'Night, Rick."

Rick smiles, and reaches out to gently hook his fingers in the back of Daryl's shirt, before he lets go. "You too, Daryl. Sleep well."

 

 

 

Rick had been sure that sleeping next to Daryl would keep his dreams calm. Daryl's comments that he had, in fact, been having nightmares had proven that to be untrue. Still, Rick feels well-rested when he wakes up again. Daryl is still in the tent with him, the sun sliding in between the shirt and _just_ visible through the tarps and blankets. It makes the whole tent look hazy, like Rick has just stepped into a movie theatre and his eyes are getting used to the graininess of the darkness.

Daryl is staring at the ceiling, his eyes half-lidded, body relaxed. Rick stretches and yawns so that Daryl knows he's awake and it garners the man's attention, and Daryl turns to look at him with a lopsided smile, blinking slowly.

"Mornin'," he says.

Rick smiles and stifles another yawn behind his hand. "Morning," he says. "How long you been awake?"

"About an hour," Daryl replies. "Been watching the sun come up."

"From inside the tent."

Daryl huffs a laugh, blowing some of his hair from his face, and then pushes himself upright. "It's past dawn," he informs Rick, grabbing a backpack from the corner of the tent near his feet. Rick grabs his own pack and checks that the food and pistols he'd pilfered before are still inside. He puts a different set of clothes in and fastens it closed as Daryl does the same. "We're runnin' behind."

"Wasn't planning on just a day trip anyway," Rick replies. "I don't intend to come back until War is dead."

"That sounds almost deep," Daryl mutters, shouldering his backpack and grabbing his crossbow. Rick can see, tucked into the side pocket, arrows wrapped in a tight bundle. Maybe he stayed up when Rick was asleep, making his arrows. Maybe that's what he was doing for the hour before. Or maybe he's lying, and he hasn't slept at all.

Rick follows Daryl as they crawl out of the tent. Rick can smell hot soup – more chicken noodle, probably – and he smiles when Carl scurries over to him and throws himself into a hug.

"Be safe," Carl says, with too much seriousness for a ten-year-old. Rick sighs and hugs him back just as tightly. He leans down to press a kiss to the top of Carl's head before letting him go.

"Don't worry, kid. I'll watch our for yer old man," Daryl says with a grin, before he heads off towards the campfire to grab some food. Rick, not hungry, goes towards the row of cars. Glenn and T-Dog are sitting on the trunk of Glenn's Challenger and they perk up when they see him.

"Been waitin' long?" Rick asks, putting his bag in the trunk when Glenn and T-Dog move off and open it.

Glenn shakes his head. "Just ate, been here like ten minutes maybe," he replies. "Daryl comin'?"

"Yeah," Rick says, and smiles. He gets to walk into the city of War with his friend, his _disciple_. He wonders if War will be watching, if he'll sense the iron in Rick's spine and the strength in his step with Daryl by his side. "He's grabbing food, I think, then we'll be good to go."

"We should take two cars," Glenn notes. "Not a lot of room in the back."

Rick eyes the Challenger critically. It's a two-door, and although he's sure the back seat is roomy enough, it's not practical to have a car where access to all of the seats isn't easy. It's the kind of car that would need the driver and passenger seat pulled forward to allow someone to climb in the back. Not good for a quick getaway at all.

Rick nods and licks his lips. "We can see if Merle will let us borrow his truck, or Shane his car."

"You can take the Jeep," comes a voice, and Rick turns around to see Jacqui rounding the back of the Jeep. She offers him a small smile. "It's got almost a full tank and lots of room for anything useful you might find while you're galivanting around there."

"Thank you," Rick says, nodding to her. She gives him a nod back and moves away. Daryl passes her and she hands him the keys to the Jeep, and he comes to a halt between Rick, Glenn and T-Dog. "We ready to go?"

"Yeah," Daryl says. "What're we takin'?"

"We packed the Challenger and Jacqui is giving us her Jeep," Glenn says, pushing himself off of his perch on the back of the car. "Says it's got the most gas and the most room, so we have plenty of space for Rick's brother and any supplies he might have."

Rick nods, pressing his lips together. "We'll follow you out?" he asks, and Glenn nods, and he and T-Dog pile into the Challenger. After a moment of hesitation, Rick goes to the passenger side of the Jeep and climbs in. Soon enough Daryl is in the driver's seat and they're following Glenn out of the quarry by the gravel road.

They sit in silence. The radio is off and the only sound is the rumble of the vehicles as they navigate the unsteady ground until they hit highway and pick up speed. Then, Rick sighs. "Did I have any more dreams last night?" he asks.

Daryl shakes his head, but his grip on the steering wheel is tight. "Not that I heard."

"Why are you lying to me?"

"If you don't remember, there's a reason," Daryl replies. Then he heaves a breath through his nose. "You were saying Shane's name a lot. You sounded…sad. Didn't take much to figure out what was happening. I think you were going to kill him, or just had. I don't know."

"Oh." Rick looks down at his hands, curling his fingers tightly to stop the urge to scratch at his forearms. He had never thought of something like skin and flesh with such intensity before, but he can't help but feeling that his skin feels too thick, too tight on his bones. He wants it _gone_. "Do you think Shane might'a heard me?"

Daryl shakes his head. "You were quiet," he says. Then he presses his lips together and makes another tired sound. "Could barely hear you."

"Okay." Rick lifts his head. "When I came back, I didn't sense War on Shane. But that doesn't mean anything. The city…messed me up. I -."

He swallows, the words stalling in his throat. Truthfully he's scared, so terrified by what War might make him say, or do, or trick him into seeing. He couldn't live with himself if Daryl got hurt – or if those two well-meaning, sweet men in front of them were caught in the crossfire of his own destiny.

"Rick, tell me," Daryl says after another moment. The city rises up like a mountain in front of them even though Rick knows they're still over an hour away. It feels like getting closer and closer to an unbearable heat, the more they drive.

"I had visions, in my coma," Rick says, looking back down at his hands. "I saw…certain things. Things that started to get stronger after I woke up and started meeting people. I've had visions…about a woman I've never met, but she dies and it hurts all of us very badly. I saw – I saw a vision of your brother, trapped on a rooftop. I had left him there, and I promised I would come back, but in all honesty I can't be sure if I really meant to or not. And there was a moment when they found me and Merle had Shane's cuffs and I thought ' _I could do it_ ', I could just tie him up and leave him there."

He can feel Daryl's eyes on him. He wants them back on the road – when Daryl looks at him Rick finds it hard to think. What had once grounded him so much is becoming shaky. Atlanta lumbers towards them like a charging beast.

"I didn't, of course," Rick says. "Not really. But I could have. And I feel like…I feel like I'm changing what should be happening. Sometimes I don't know what's going to happen but then I get to certain places and I feel like _something_ is going to happen. I'm changing the future and it scares the shit outta me because if I don't see what's coming how can I protect you from it?"

"Look, Rick…" Daryl sighs, letting go of his white-knuckled grip on the wheel to run a hand through his hair. "This may come as a shock to ya, but us mortals don't get to see the future all the time anyway." Rick huffs a laugh and can't help but smile. "Just trust your gut. Trust mine. That's…what you said before, anyway, right? That's what you should do."

"My gut is telling me I might have to kill my best friend," Rick murmurs, sitting back with a sigh and closing his eyes. "Not on speaking terms right now."

Daryl is quiet for a moment. "Did you say goodbye to your family before we left?"

Rick shakes his head. "No."

"Why?"

"Did you say goodbye to Merle?"

"Yeah, I did," Daryl huffs, shifting his weight. "Fat lotta good that was worth. Stupid jackass still wanted me to stay behind, or him to come with." He snorts. "Kinda glad I didn't let him come now, anyway. If yer gonna be handcuffin' him to roofs and shit."

"Daryl, that's not funny," Rick says. "The things I see are scaring me."

"I know." Daryl reaches over and sighs, letting his hand rest on Rick's forearm. Rick does nothing to shrug the touch off. Daryl's hand is warm, the calluses scraping roughly over the sensitive skin of his arm. It's a soothing touch and Rick takes a deep breath to try and get himself to relax. "Get some sleep, Rick. I'll wake you when we're there."

"I don't want to sleep," Rick says.

"Then don't sleep," Daryl replies, and Rick can hear him rolling his eyes.

Rick smiles. "I missed you."

"Yeah, me too."

 

 

 

Despite not wanting to sleep or feeling tired in the slightest, Rick does manage a light doze before the Jeep rolls to a halt, and the lack of motion is enough to jar him to wakefulness. They're in a parking lot much like the one Glenn first led him to, and he climbs out of the car and walks over to the back of the Challenger as Glenn and T-Dog start pulling out their packs.

Rick shoulders his bag and sighs when the motion tugs on his injured arm. He needs to change the bandages and can't remember if they packed any spares, but he supposes that that can wait until they hole up for the night. The sun seems higher in the sky than it should.

"We get any crowd when we drove in?" he asks.

Glenn shakes his head. "Way was clear," he says, and grabs a pistol from the back of the car and tucks it into the back of his jeans.

Rick frowns. It's not like walkers to just ignore sound, especially one as loud as their particular vehicles. "They'll be coming," he says, and looks over to Daryl. "They'll know I'm here."

Daryl nods, pressing his lips together.

"Got any idea where to start?" Glenn asks. "Where your brother might be?"

Rick thinks for a moment, trying to remember what he can of his last trip into the city. In truth he hadn't discovered anything of note or anything that might him think he's going in the right direction. The only thing he can assume is that War will be in the heart of it, where the danger is.

"Where are we in relation to the Double Tree?" he asks.

"Couple blocks north," T-Dog supplies. "Road was blocked off, looked like some sorry sucker tried to make a sprint for it when it was quiet. Big wreck."

Rick makes a soft, sad sound. He wishes he could have been there to wish those souls onto their next life. The pistol on his thigh is almost empty but he still has the guns he took from the woman in the church and pilfered from the second apartment in his bag, and he has the knives and letter opener. He'd left the rifle and sniper with the group, figuring the long-range weapons will work better for a defense in their spot.

"I need a vantage point," Rick says after a moment. "I don't know the city that well."

"How about there?" Glenn asks, nodding towards the nearest tall building. It looks like it used to be an office building and from the half-way point up the walls are made entirely of windows. Some of them are cracked badly but still intact.

"Works for me," he says, and Daryl nods and falls into step behind him, just a step back, on his right. Glenn and T-Dog follow as Rick leads them towards the entrance of the building. There's a woman trapped in the revolving door and she hisses and reaches for them as they push through the doors meant for disabled people on the left-hand side.

Inside, the place looks like it was ransacked and then wrecked. The walls are spattered with blood and paper and pieces of flesh. The floor, which had once been white as best as Rick can tell, is a bright pink now.

He takes a step inside and freezes.

The air is cold.

"Rick, you okay?" Glenn asks, but his voice is as though through a thick piece of glass. Rick looks around, a chill running down his spine as he tries to find the source of the cold. He reaches out and touches Daryl's arm, grabbing his attention.

"Do you feel that?" he whispers urgently, and looks down to where his skin is covered in goosebumps. Daryl doesn't look cold in the slightest, and his eyes are wide and fixed on Rick's face as he shakes his head. "Death's here."

Daryl blinks, and then his eyes widen. Rick straightens when he hears the sound of horse hooves on concrete and whirls around, before he barges back outside, past the woman stuck in the revolving doors. He looks to his right, hearing the sound coming from that way, and runs after it.

"Rick!" Glenn hisses, loud enough to carry, and he can hear the three of them running after him.

He rounds a corner and skids to a stop when he sees a horse. He hears Daryl, Glenn and T-Dog running up and stopping behind him, but he can't make himself look away. The horse isn't red, isn't clad in armor with a rider on its back like he expected.

"Daryl," he says weakly, reaching out.

Daryl comes up until Rick can see him in his periphery, and he turns to look at the man. Daryl is staring ahead, he's seeing _something_. He just needs to know; "Are you seeing what I'm seeing?"

Daryl nods, and then licks his lips and lets out a short, sharp whistle. The horse's ears perk up and it lets out a soft whicker, raising its head from where it was nosing at a bag of trash over spilled from the dumpster. Rick feels like he could collapse, glad that he's not hallucinating – that whatever he's seeing, Daryl is as well.

The horse's tail flicks to one side and it walks towards them and Rick steps forward, smiling with relieved joy when the animals puts its muzzle into his hand and snorts. "Hey, troublemaker," he says. It's the same horse he rode into Atlanta, the one Death had rode with. It's the same horse – white and muddy, with the ugly makeshift harness attached to its head.

The horse rolls one eye and gives an unimpressed-sounding huff. "I know, I'm sorry," Rick murmurs, petting the animal's soft cheek. "I promised I'd take all this off you, didn't I?"

"What the fuck -?" It's T-Dog, and when Rick turns around to look at the man, he sees him and Glenn standing there with wide, disbelieving eyes.

"When I first left my family," he says, nodding at Daryl, "I found a horse abandoned in a field, and I rode him in because it was faster than going on foot."

"This crazy S.O.B.'s a real-life cowboy," T-Dog mutters, shaking his head.

Rick huffs a laugh and looks at Daryl. Daryl's eyes are on the animal, like he's seeing something that doesn't look quite right. "Daryl," Rick says, drawing his gaze, "will you help me with this?" Daryl nods and steps forward, unhooking the girth strap while Rick unfastens the harness around the animal's head until they can haul it all off. The horse shakes his mane out and swishes his tail back and forth before giving another snort. "Thank you."

The air doesn't feel as cold outside, standing in the sun as they are, and Rick can't help but smile when he realizes Death made him stop so that he could hear the horse and keep his promise to the animal. Death is keeping him honest, at the very least.

Rick pets down the horse's neck one more time and it snorts at him, butting its muzzle against his chest in something like a farewell, before it turns and trots off back down the street. Rick resists the urge to follow it – he doesn't want to lead War's dogs to it, or the walkers. If it was smart enough to keep itself alive this long, Rick has no doubt it will continue to do so.

"That was…weird," Glenn finally says, breaking the silence.

Daryl huffs a laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching up in one of his rare, amused smiles. "Gonna have to get used to weird, man," he says, and then walks past Glenn back towards the tall office building. "Come on. No rest for the wicked."

Rick smiles, and follows.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately I didn't have as much time to proofread this as I would normally like so if you see any big errors please let me know so I can correct them!

It's so _dark,_ and he's not alone. There are people here with him – _his_ people. He can feel their energy brushing up against him like touch-starved dogs. _Rick. Lead us to water. Get us out of here. Rick!_ He grits his teeth and hauls at the bars blocking the door one more time. His shoulder burns, his back aches. He feels like he's been beaten to within an inch of his life. There's blood in his mouth when he turns and spits it out onto the metal floor.

 _Metal floor_.

"Where are we?" Rick growls. He doesn't remember getting here. He remembers panic, anger, blistering hot like summer sunshine and echoing through his bones. He remembers _fear_ , and it lingers and stinks more than the blood and the scent of death that surrounds him.

_Rick. Get us out of here._

"I'm _trying_."

He steps back and kicks at the door and it gives, suddenly. The sunlight streaks straight into his eyes, temporarily blinding him and leaving purple spots in his vision when he blinks and lifts his hand to shield his eyes. He staggers out and turns around but can't make out the shape of the container he was in, or what it was.

"Come out!" he yells.

He hears something. It's not horses, it's not dogs. It feels heavy on his ears, like the sound itself carries weight. A great, giant serpent slithering around him, ready to launch itself at his neck and coil tight around him until he suffocates. He reaches for his weapon but doesn’t feel it. There's sweat clinging to his neck and making his shirt stick to his spine. He feels like it he peels it off his skin will come with it.

He scratches at his wrist and looks around again. His people aren't coming out – maybe they know something he doesn't. Maybe they're smarter than he is. "Come out!" he yells again. The shadow in the open mouth of the container shifts, and Rick steps back as he realizes where he's heard the slithering, roaring sound before.

 _Famine_.

"Get away from there!" he screams, and searches around desperately for a weapon. Famine is going to come for them and devour them all. Where is his family? Where is _Daryl_? "Daryl! Where are you? Get out!" Because he's sure Daryl was in the container with him. He _must_ be. "Daryl!"

"Rick!"

It's Daryl's voice. Rick _knows_ it's Daryl's voice. It's not coming from the container, though, and the roar is getting louder. Rick takes another step back and his shoulders hit a brick wall when he sees something slither in the darkness of the container. Then, a head emerges from the darkness. It's a horse's head, black as the shadows that birthed it, eyes yellow and face sunken. It could almost be a skeleton, and it's huge, easily towering over Rick as it takes one step out of the container.

He hears a whistle. It's high-pitched and long and doesn't stop. Rick turns and runs.

"Rick! Come back!"

_Rick. Get us out of here._

He runs through a courtyard made of concrete, a building vaguely reminiscent of a factory rising up around him. The whistle doesn't stop, but seems to grow louder along with the roar. When Rick turns and looks back he sees that Famine's horse has completely surfaced from the darkness of the container. The horse's tail swishes back and forth but its shadow moves separately from it, as though there are two of them and Rick is standing in such a way that he can see both sides of the glass.

The horse is not bearing its rider.

Rick flinches to one side just as the silhouette of the factory wall reaches for him, clawed hands catching his arm and shredding through his shirt and bandages and bringing up new blood. It's the same arm he'd injured before and he hisses at the pain, clutching it in a vain attempt to stop the bleeding. He runs out into the sunlight, hoping that it will shield him from Famine's slithering, sneaking attacks.

He has no weapon but his bones feel cold and he knows Death is with him. This doesn't make sense, though – they must not be in Atlanta anymore. Atlanta is _War's_ city, so why would Famine be here?

If only he could _remember_ how he got here!

"Rick!"

Daryl's voice cuts into his head and he growls, putting his hands on either side of his face and shaking himself roughly. "It's not real," he says to himself. After all, even with all the imbalances in his brain, he has never had such a significant gap in his memory, and at a time where vigilance means survival, he knows he would have had to sustain some grave injury to forget being trapped in a container with Famine.

Famine reaches for him again and this time Rick can see his body, his wide dark eyes and gaping maw. He yells and flinches back and hits another wall, before he turns and runs.

"Rick!"

"Get away from me!"

He has no weapon, nothing to defend himself with. This is his _destiny_ , maybe it's to die at the hands of Famine. Maybe he was never truly destined to win.

Rick turns a corner and slides to a halt, narrowly missing the shadow cast by another wall. He must stay in the sunlight. He can feel the heat of it on his face and his hands even through the chill in his bones. There's a glint of metal across another clearing. There are trees, and a high chain-linked fence. If he could climb it, he could get away.

He hears a frantic, high-pitched whinny and knows Famine has found his mount and intends to chase him down. He has to act quickly.

He is just about to bolt when he hears it – a whistle. Not the high-pitched, loud whistle. Although that's still there, piercing his brain like a well-placed knife, this whistle cuts through it. It's soft, and gentle, and Rick realizes abruptly that even though he's not holding his head anymore, he still feels pressure there as though someone is embracing him. The touch is warm, soothing, and gentle. He feels it on his cheeks, on his neck, and he hears the soft whistle again. Low, high, low.

"Daryl," he whispers. "Where are you?"

"Rick." The touch goes to his chest, up to his cheek again. Daryl sounds terrified. Rick has to _find_ him. The shriek of the other whistle is right between his eyes and Rick feels like he's about to get hit by a train.

 _The train_.

"Rick!"

Rick jerks awake, but doesn't yell and doesn't thrash. He feels cold to the core, drenched in sweat and shivering. He's in a hallway. There's a red carpet on the walls and he remembers making note of that because it was hiding the bloodstains terribly. Blood isn't the same red, and it's noticeable. He remembers seeing this hotel and thinking _yes, this way_ when he, Daryl, Glenn and T-Dog had made it up to the roof. It had taken all day to get to this hotel and they'd decided to hole up for the night.

"Daryl," Rick whispers, and his voice is cracked and dry like he's been in a desert. He's _thirsty_ , and _hungry,_ and craves something so deeply that he thinks he might never be satisfied. It's Famine's touch, of that he has no doubt, playing tricks on his body.

He's kneeling in the middle of the hallway and when he opens his eyes he sees Daryl kneeling in front of him. There's blood on Daryl's shoulder and his arm and Rick's eyes widen when he sees the nail-marks there. He reaches out and runs his fingers through the shine there.

"I hurt you," he whispers, and lifts his eyes to meet Daryl's. Daryl's eyes are wide and the same gorgeous dark blue he has when he's scared shitless. There's blood under his nails. How did he do that?

He draws his hands away and shies back, until his back hits the wall and Daryl is a safe distance away from him. He runs his hands through his hair and feels like he's shaking apart atom by atom. Daryl sits back on his heels, pressing his lips together.

"Daryl -."

"What were you dreaming about, Rick?" Daryl asks, nothing in his voice to betray his pain or his fear. Rick can feel it, though, and it aches something inside of him that cuts deeper than his hunger or thirst. He licks his lips and thinks he might taste sawdust.

Rick shakes his head. "I hurt you," he says.

"No, you didn't," Daryl replies, and reaches out again and Rick has nowhere to run. And he still can't make himself resist Daryl's touch. Starved for it, desperate like a she-cat, Rick takes a deep breath and sighs when Daryl touches his injured arm gently. Rick looks down, surprised when he sees blood on his arm, too. He frowns and looks at Daryl, not understanding. "You…did it to yourself," Daryl says. "You were yelling, and running and I couldn't get to you and then you just _hurt_ yourself and…"

He looks down at his arm and Rick's eyes widen when he realizes that the marks are the same. Three lines, from half-way up his forearm and curving around to just below the meat of his shoulder. "I…it happened to you too?" he asks, and Daryl licks his lips and nods. "I didn't hurt you?"

Daryl, at that, manages a small laugh. "Like I'd let ya," he says.

"Are you thirsty?" Rick asks. "Hungry?"

Daryl nods. "Starving."

"It's Famine," Rick says. "Famine's getting to us. He's here."

Daryl blinks and cocks his head to one side. "Like… _here_ , here?" Rick shakes his head. "In the city then."

"We need to find Glenn and T-Dog," Rick says, pushing himself quickly to his feet. The abrupt action makes him lightheaded and he grabs onto Daryl's uninjured shoulder for balance, sucking a deep breath. His lungs feel like they've collapsed and his brain feels fuzzy. He _hungers_ , and he's not sure what for, specifically. He's so _thirsty_. "We need to see if Famine's affecting them, too."

Daryl helps Rick back to the room and Rick sees that the door has been kicked down from the inside. "Is that…did I do that?" Rick asks quietly, and Daryl nods.

"Rick! Daryl! Holy shit, what happened to you guys?"

Glenn greets them at the door, his eyes wide. Rick doesn't see any blood on him or T-Dog either when the man comes into his view, and for that he is immensely relieved. This is his burden, and Daryl had known what he was signing up for when he volunteered to follow Rick's path. Glenn and T-Dog, however, did not, and don't need to suffer for it.

He opens his mouth, but can't think of anything to say. "He needs water," Daryl says, depositing Rick on one of the beds and then going to their supplies. Rick licks his lips and shudders, and closes his eyes. But as soon as he does he sees the black horse, moving around in the darkness, so he opens them again.

"I know where he is," Rick says, taking the bottle of water Daryl hands him. He unscrews it and takes three long pulls, and it isn't enough to sate his thirst but it will do for now. He closes the bottle and hands it back to Daryl, who takes three just as he did and sets the bottle to one side. When Rick lifts his head, he sees Glenn and T-Dog watching him with wary, scared expressions. "I know where we need to go."

"Uh…good," Glenn says, his eyes flashing to T-Dog, and then Daryl, as though hoping they'll volunteer more information. T-Dog, of course, looks just as confused and scared as Glenn does, and Daryl has a poker face that would put a statue to shame. "Where?"

Rick shakes his head. "It's too dangerous," he says. If Famine is coming for him, then he can't – he _won't_ – have these men get caught in the crossfire. "You guys should…head back. To the quarry. It's too dangerous, I can't let you guys follow me in."

"The fuck, man?" T-Dog asks. "Look, I'm about as thrilled to be here as the next guy, but we promised you we'd help you get your brother out and I'm not backing outta that."

"He's right," Glenn says solemnly, his eyes dark and his expression set. Rick is reminded of the cops that spent a little too long undercover, until the filth clings to them like a second skin and there are some things, no matter how necessary, that will never wash out. He knows what that feels like intimately. "We signed up to help you and we're gonna see it through, but…" He bites his lip and looks towards the caved in door. "I think we need to talk about what the Hell's goin' on first."

Rick nods and licks his lips and tries not to think about how thirsty he still is. "We need to move," he says. "It's not safe here anymore."

Daryl nods and grabs the bags, handing his to Rick. None of them say anything about their injuries, or offer to clean up first. His pack must sense the energy on Rick's skin, buzzing behind his eyes. They will follow him, for now, and he focuses on getting them somewhere safe and not on how much different this would have all gone had they not met him first. If his family had reached them a little sooner and Rick had stayed in Atlanta a little longer. Would they have told Dale, Glenn and the others the truth? Would they know Rick is insane?

Should he tell them?

They break into a diner where the windows are tinted and unbroken and the inside, though dirty, looked relatively undisturbed. They find food that's long-since gone bad, no longer safely stored in the freezer (although one sniff in that direction had shown they'd find similarly rotten food). There is, however, an entire cabinet that's filled with boxes of peanuts. Next to it is a dead cooler of bottled sodas and water. The beverages are no longer cold but it hardly matters. Glenn grins, whispering "Jackpot" as they open and hand out a bottle of water to everyone and begin snacking down on the peanuts. Daryl finds another box of pretzels and small packets of chips. It's a feast fit for kings, or at least people who are hungry as they are.

As Rick eats, he gives a huff of satisfaction. His belly feels full, finally, for the first time in what must be days. On his own and in the facility, when Death was with him, he hadn't needed things like food or sleep to feel alive. Now he's ravenous, as though his body is forcing him to catch up on all the things he missed in a few short moments. He's sleep and lethargic and thirsty, and that's when Daryl shifts in place where he is, sitting close to Rick with one knee tucked under Rick's. He looks at Daryl and another long-unsatisfied need makes itself known to him.

Rick shifts his weight and clears his throat, his fingers crinkling the brightly-colored plastic wrappers in his hands. "Glenn, T-Dog," he says quietly, gaining their attention. Even between the two of them they haven't eaten as much as either Rick or Daryl have alone. "I believe I owe you some explanations. Before we go on. And I want you to know that if you decide to turn back, I won't blame ya."

"Probably gonna," Daryl huffs, and pulls his knee up for balance so that he can reach for another bag of pretzels that they'd collected into a big pile between the four of them. He rips the bag open and eats a pretzel, licking the salt up off his fingers and it takes all of Rick's willpower to tear his eyes away from the sight.

"Like I said, 's your choice," Rick repeats, and waits until Glenn and T-Dog nod before he continues. "Okay…so."

He bites his lip, thinking about where to even begin that will make him sound the least amount of crazy. He looks down at his hands and his wristband catches his eye. It's red now, from his own blood. He doesn't remember seeing red wristbands in the facility, and can't think what they might have been labelled as. Maybe no one got red. Maybe red meant dead.

Glenn must see him looking, because he makes a noise and nods at it. "You were in hospital?" he asks weakly.

Rick cocks his head to one side and nods. "I guess you would call it that," he says, before he runs a hand through his hair and sighs. "About eight months before…all this happened, I got shot in the line of duty. I was a cop, Shane's partner, don't know if he mentioned that. Anyway…" He sighs again. "I was in a coma for a couple months. And when I was in there I had these dreams. Really fucked-up shit, I'm telling ya now. And… _this_ is what I dreamed about."

Glenn blinks, sitting up a little straighter. "You dreamed the apocalypse?" he asks lowly, his eyes wide. "The walkers?"

Rick nods. "When I woke up, I couldn't stop thinking that it was gonna happen. So Lori admitted me into this mental care facility in our county. That's where I was when the first resident turned. Wiped the place out in seconds."

He sees something ugly pass over Daryl's face, and thinks of James. Sweet James, with his brain no more useful than melted sugar on the floor. Rick smiles and it's a sad thing.

"Well, I mean." T-Dog laughs, and it sounds uncomfortable. "You were right."

Rick lifts his eyes and nods. "That's not everything," he says. "In my dreams…how much Revelations do you guys know?"

T-Dog hums. "Well, you know, the basics. Four horsemen, kingdom of Heaven comin' down, dead rising and Jesus everywhere or whatever."

Rick grins lopsidedly. T-Dog's cavalier description makes it sound almost manageable and not horrifying at all. "Well, when I was in my coma, Death came to me," he says, his words all a rush. He knows he only has a limited amount of time before the intrigue of the story is outweighed by how completely fucking crazy it is. Next to him, Daryl is silently still eating, the only sound the smack of his lips and the slurps as he drinks from his water bottle. He seems determined not to say anything until Rick's story is told. "He told me that if the four horsemen were killed, the apocalypse wouldn't happen. Or it would stop, I guess."

"Kill the four horsemen?" T-Dog asks, brow furrowing. Rick nods.

"Pestilence. Or Conquest, as he's sometimes known. And War, and Famine, and finally Death," Rick says with another nod. Daryl crunches up a plastic bag into his fist and throws it over his shoulder before grabbing another bag of pretzels. "If they all die, then the walkers will just…go. The world will be saved. Everything will go back to normal."

"Man," T-Dog mutters, looking at Daryl. "How can you be so chill about this?"

"Ain't the first time I've heard that story," Daryl replies, not lifting his eyes. He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth and huffs, sniffing loudly.

"And you believe him?" Glenn murmurs.

Daryl nods. "Not…not at first, I didn't," he says, and finally raises his head so that he can look Rick in the eye. His gaze ducks, like he can't hold Rick's attention for too long. Rick wonders if he feels the same needs Rick is – if the hunger, and the pain, and the thirst between them are to be shared, maybe the other things are as well. Rick licks his lips and resists the urge to pet through Daryl's hair. "But I saw the place turn. And it happened when Rick said it would happen. There's some shit I don't quite get, but I trust him, and I believe him."

"Were you a resident, too?" Glenn asks, his voice carefully neutral. Rick understands. If Daryl was marked as crazy, too, there's no reason for them to believe his story at all.

Daryl shakes his head. "Was one'a the staff," he says, and then digs into another bag of pretzels, effectively shutting himself off from the rest of the conversation. Rick gives a soft hum of thanks and then turns to look at Glenn and T-Dog on the other side of their haul.

T-Dog snorts and shakes his head. "Man, you some bona-fide crazy sonuvabitch cowboy and now I gotta add psychic in there too," he mutters, and takes his hat off for long enough to wipe the sweat from his head.

"These visions," Glenn says. "Have any more of them come true?"

Rick swallows. "Some have," he admits, and Daryl lifts his head to look at Rick. "But I've changed some, too. I get the feeling I started too early, but it's done now and I gotta deal with it."

"And you think finding your brother is gonna help?"

"I…"

And this is the moment that will cement Glenn and T-Dog's impressions of him. He lied, he knows he did – of course he did. His brother is in Barcelona, or Spain, or somewhere in Europe and most likely dead. He hasn't seen the man in almost a decade anyway, not since Carl was born.

"I don't have a brother in Atlanta," he says. "I know one of the horsemen is here, and I have to find and kill him before he finds me."

It's funny, he thinks, how synchronized people's shocked reactions are. Glenn and T-Dog both blink, and sit up a little straighter, and lean back as though Rick's confessions have physically pushed them. Glenn's hands flatten out on his knees and he sucks in a breath through his teeth, and holds it there, his head bobbing like he's nodding to himself. T-Dog shakes his head, folding his arms across his chest, and blows out a breath at the same time as Glenn does.

"So you're expecting a fight. Or something to happen."

"It's very dangerous," Rick says. "If he's as aware as I am, he will know what I'm there to do. It won't be a fight where we can call a truce or retreat. Like I said, I understand if you guys wanna leave."

Daryl clears his throat abruptly, drawing the other three's attention. "You know which it is?" he asks, sucking another piece of salt off his thumb. Rick swallows hard and tries not to think about how dry his mouth suddenly is. Then, lower, Daryl says, "Is it War?"

Rick shakes his head. "I think Famine's here," he replies, and then looks to Glenn and T-Dog, carefully gauging their reactions. "Famine's in Atlanta, and I think I know where we can find him."

 

 

 

It makes sense, Rick thinks to himself when he finally figures it out. Famine likes dark, and likes places where people don't go unless they have to. Famine thrives off of desperation and lust, the bullet-rip of desire, the fast-paced lack of thought behind man's primal needs and urges.

"You've gotta be kidding me," T-Dog says.

Rick nods, his hands resting on his hips as he looks up and out across the vast expanse of the city around them. The sun is just about to set again and the darkness is bringing a chill with it. His breath is misting in the orange air.

He turns around and smiles. Behind him two sets of train tracks stretch into the large dark holes of the underground metro system. Daryl, Glenn, and T-Dog stand a little way away. Daryl's expression is impassive, ready to dive in wherever Rick may lead, but T-Dog and Glenn look scared shitless.

"We'll draw out any walkers first," Rick says. Then, he takes his Python and fires a single shot into the hole on the right. The gunshot echoes repeatedly as he holsters the weapon again and the four of them wait in tense silence for the sound of hissing or growling from the undead.

"Daryl and I will go in alone," Rick says after a while, turning around to face Glenn and T-Dog. "Silent weapons only. Here." He hands Glenn and T-Dog his other pistols. "Fully loaded. You guys should go hole up in the building itself, or one of the train cars, and wait for us."

"Rick…" Glen shifts his weight and lifts his shoulders in a helpless gesture. "C'mon, man, you gotta take a gun."

"Loud, dark and narrow don't make good environments for gunshots," Rick replies with a smile.

"At least you probably won't miss!"

"Glenn." Rick reaches out and rests a hand on Glenn's shoulder, pushing until Glenn lowers them. "Your concern is appreciated, but unnecessary. I'm not afraid." After all, Death is on his right hand and Daryl is on his left. How could he possibly fail?

"At least take this," Glenn says, pulling his phone out from his pocket and handing it to Rick. "It has a flashlight and the battery life is decent. Try not to be in there too long."

"Thank you," Rick says, smiling, before he steps back and turns to face Daryl. Daryl manages a weak smile. "You ready?"

"As I'll ever be," Daryl replies, before he nods at Glenn and T-Dog and starts towards the darkness of the underground train tracks. Rick follows, jogging for a couple steps so that he can catch up. They fall into stride together naturally, like soldiers or long-time friends. As they get closer, Rick pulls out the long knives he had kept with him. Daryl has a longer blade, almost like a machete that Rick is sure he got from Dale, and his crossbow hangs loosely in his other hand, ready to be lifted and fired at a moment's notice.

"Daryl," Rick says quietly, as the darkness creeps down over the sky and the open, yawning mouth of the underground stretches up high above them. Daryl hums. "I'm really glad you're with me."

Daryl stops, mere feet from where the darkness of the outside melts into the darkness of the tunnel. Rick can just see the shine of his eyes from the yellowy lights illuminating the tracks and the sides of the tunnel, but he can't tell what color of blue they are.

Then, Daryl smiles. It's one of his secret, rare smiles – the ones he saves just for Rick. "Can't think of someone I'd rather die with more," he says in answer, and Rick grins and tries not to think about how close they're standing and how easy it would be to hold Daryl by the hair and kiss him. He can't tell if it's Famine's influence or his own, at this point – and would it really matter? The desire is there, he's sure of that much. Just because he resists acting on it or thinking about it too much doesn't mean it isn't there.

Rick turns back and takes out Glenn's phone, turning on the flashlight. It illuminates almost two feet in front of them and Rick presses his lips together as the two of them step inside. The tracks are wet, with rain or blood he can't be sure. He can't see any walkers or trace of them but figures there might not be much to draw them into a place such as this. Famine would have no effect on something already rabid with hunger.

They follow the tracks for about a half a mile, as best Rick can guess. That's when he hears it, and freezes. "Daryl," he whispers, and hates how even that quiet sound echoes and bounces off the walls as it travels down the tunnel. Daryl swims into view next to him, his silhouette black in the halo of white light from Glenn's phone. "Do you hear that?"

_Can you hear it? Or is it in my head?_

Daryl cocks his head to one side and listens. Rick can hear it, like it's growing louder now. It can't just be him. Just as he decides that, he sees Daryl slide into a ready stance and lift his crossbow. He raises the phone and hopes that the snarling and growling means it's walkers and nothing with ranged weapons.

The first shadow to lope into view gets an arrow in the eye, and then the horde is on them. Rick grits his teeth and does his best to keep the phone up so that Daryl can see and, more importantly, see what is a target and what isn't. He hears another arrow go flying but then all he can concentrate on is shoving his knife into as many skulls as he can before the walkers get a hold of either of them.

There are almost ten in total and, with a final sickening _crack_ as Rick pushes the tenth to the crowd and smashes its head against the iron tracks, they are once again enveloped in darkness and silence. Rick moves the light until he can see Daryl and finds the man braced against the side of the tunnel, his face twisted in pain.

"Daryl!" Rick hisses urgently, climbing carefully over the tracks and bodies until he's by Daryl's side. He can't see any new blood or bites. "Daryl, are you hurt? What happened? You ain't bit, are ya?"

Daryl lifts his eyes, squinting against the light of the phone. "Ain't bit," he mutters, pushing himself upright. "Just winded is all. I'm fine." He shoves against Rick's chest to give himself some space and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. "You good?"

Rick nods and Daryl nods back, before he looks down the tunnel. "What you think they were all doin' down here?" he asks.

"Famine knows I'm coming for him," Rick says. "I wouldn't put it past the sick bastard to try and get the walkers to take me out first."

Daryl laughs. "S'gonna take more'n ten," he says, sounding almost smug.

Rick smirks. "Don't give him any ideas," he replies, and then they both continue down the tunnel. There isn't any sound aside from their breathing but as Rick takes step after step, he feels like something is following behind. He turns and shines the phone behind him but sees nothing. Daryl stops, and even without looking at his face Rick can tell he's feeling uneasy. The opening to the tunnel has long disappeared and if Rick didn't know all they had to do was keep going forward, he would have thought they might be lost.

"I'm -."

"Don't say it," Rick says, and puts the light in front of them again. "Don't say anything. Don't think anything. Don't give him anything to play on you." He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, before he shuts off the flashlight on Glenn's phone and shoves it in his pocket.

"The fuck you doin'?" Daryl hisses. "Can't see shit without that."

"I know." Rick reaches out and gently brushes his fingers down Daryl's arm. He feels Daryl flinch instinctively before he realizes it's Rick and lets himself relax. Rick's fingers feel cold and the back of his neck has a grip on it like someone is holding him, guiding him forward like a dog held by the scruff. It must be Death, because that chill is unmistakable. He just has to trust.

"Hold onto me, Daryl," Rick says, and sidesteps so that when Daryl reaches out his fingers find the hem of Rick's shirt. He feels Daryl's fingers gripping tight and smiles, thinking of the facility, how their positions could have gotten so reversed. "Good. Keep a hold on me."

"Rick…" Daryl's voice has taken on that young, scared quality that Rick has only heard a few times before. It tugs at something in him and he wonders, briefly, if Famine has learned to fake voices as well.

He reaches out and wraps a hand around Daryl's fingers and grips the knot of fabric and flesh tightly. _This_ he can trust. They can fool his sense of sight, his hearing. The horsemen can pierce his heart and turn his bones to dust and play on every fear, hidden or otherwise, he has kept a hold of. But they can't fake Daryl, and they can't fake the contented thrum of Rick's soul whenever he feels the other man near.

"No matter what you hear, or think you're hearin'," Rick says, "if we both hear it, it's real." He sucks in a sharp breath when he feels Daryl step closer to him, and the man leans his head over so that his forehead rests on Rick's shoulder. Rick feels him nod and he squeezes Daryl's fingers in reply.

"C'mon," Daryl whispers. "Let's fry this son of a bitch and get the Hell outta here."

Rick smiles, and starts walking. "That sounds like a damn good plan."


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Graphic murder in this chapter.

They walk for what feels like hours. Step by careful step, Rick leads Daryl through the dark train tunnel until it abruptly curves. Rick only realizes they're turning because he follows the train tracks, his foot hits the metal edge instead of landing on the slats below. He stops and hums, before he lets go of Daryl's hand and reaches for Glenn's phone.

The light from it illuminates a junction. "Left or right," he murmurs, looking down each corridor. This is what he had feared – if they make a wrong turn they could really start to get lost. Granted, it's still a metro in a city, and there will be maps and exits to the street _somewhere_ , but there's no telling how long they've been in here, and no telling where they might emerge or what dangers they might find if they wander too deep.

Daryl lets go of Rick's shirt and steps forward so that Rick can see his silhouette on his right. His eyes are narrowed, peering between the two tunnels like something in the darkness might give the correct direction away.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out in a sigh. "Well, fuck," he mutters. Then he turns to Rick. "Any ideas?"

Rick bites his lower lip and lowers the phone, turning off the light as he tries to think. He feels Daryl's hand reach out and gently curl around his wrist, the both of them reassuring each other that the darkness hasn't swallowed them whole.

The air is unreasonably cold and Rick still feels the heavy weight on the back of his neck that he knows is Death's touch. He wants to ask for help, but isn't sure Death would answer him if he did. Besides, he's not sure Daryl is ready to witness Death in all his glory quite yet.

There must be _something_ , though. Some clue in the Biblical lore or something in his head that will tell him what to do. He shifts his weight and scratches at his wrist, hissing when the movement jars his twice-injured arm.

"You alright?" Daryl asks, his voice young and soft.

Rick freezes, looking down at his hands. He's still holding Glenn's phone and is using the edge of it to rub against the inside of his arm. There's blood on his hand and he feels the tackiness of it against the surface of the device.

"My arm was injured," he says.

Daryl makes an uneasy noise. "Yeah," he replies.

"My left arm."

Rick remembers Famine always standing on his left. Around the fire, that's where Famine had stood. Famine on his left, War on his right, Pestilence straight again. He nods to himself and presses his lips together. He thinks the cold grip on his neck squeezes in something like a reward.

"This way," he says, and then pockets Glenn's phone and heads down the left tunnel. Daryl follows without protest, although Rick is sure he's burning to know why Rick had decided that way. But he follows silently as they both carefully pick their way down the track.

Rick counts his steps and just before he reaches three hundred he stops again. "Daryl," he whispers, and takes a deep breath. "Do you smell that?"

"Piss and mold? Yeah," Daryl replies gruffly.

"Not that," Rick says. "It smells like…meat."

He can feel Daryl's eyes on him, before he hears the other man take a deep breath. By the time he's exhaling, Rick is sure that's what he's smelling. His stomach clenches up and rumbles and he's struck suddenly by how hungry he is. With how much he ate he's sure it must be Famine affecting him again – or maybe they've been in here all night. Time moves however it wishes to in the darkness.

"Fuck," Daryl murmurs. "Yeah. I do smell it."

"We're going in the right direction," Rick says with a triumphant grin. He starts walking again and hears Daryl hurry to keep pace. "We'll find him down here. I'm sure."

"Or we'll just find people," Daryl replies.

"Either way, it's a win," Rick says. He _knows_ he will know Famine when he sees him. There's no way he wouldn't be able to tell. He'll see Famine's gaping maw, or feel his hunger, or look him in the eyes and recognize them over the light of the fire. He'll _know_. He's walking faster now, tripping over the train tracks. The tunnel twists and turns and then finally he sees light. "There!"

Daryl's fist tightens and tugs on his shirt and pulls Rick up short, forcing him to a halt. "Rick," he says tightly, urgently. "We can't just go barrelin' in, alright? You got a plan?"

Rick pauses, biting his lower lip as he thinks. Somehow he doesn't think "Go in and waste the son of a bitch" is going to be a satisfying answer for Daryl. He makes an impatient, irritated noise and shakes his head. "No," he mutters. "I don't have a plan. Do you?"

"Got an idea," Daryl mutters. "You gotta follow my lead, okay?"

Rick nods and takes a step back, placing Daryl in the forefront on the tracks. He loops a finger in one of Daryl's jeans belt loop and squeezes it tightly. "I trust you," he says.

Daryl nods. "Good," he says, and shoulders his crossbow so that it sits non-threateningly across his back. "We need a codeword. Something that means we need to get the fuck out. Or start shootin'."

Rick smiles. "You'n'Merle were the one with all those signals and shit," he says. "You didn't have a word for a bar brawl situation?"

Daryl snorts. "Yeah, we did. Merle's idea," he says. He clears his throat and mutters it; "Lola."

"Lola?" Rick repeats, eyebrows raising.

"Yeah, like Amicalola Falls," Daryl says with a nod. "We went camping up there one time and the whole trip was a pile'a shit. Idiot got poison oak, almost lost his hand in a bear trap, our daddy was piss drunk the whole time. He said women and waterfalls named Lola were bitches to be avoided at all cost."

Rick lets out a soft laugh. "Well, I guess it'll work," he says. "It's short, at least."

Daryl smirks. "Alright, let's go kill ourselves a horseman," he says, and then turns and starts to walk towards the light. It's a soft, amber glow that reminds Rick of the facility at night when the emergency lights would go on. He supposes that makes sense, given that they're walking through little more than a glorified service tunnel. It's not supposed to be a scenic route.

As they approach the tunnel opens and reveals the beginning of the platform. The walls are reddish and dirty. There's a single walker on the tracks, clawing futilely at the edge of the platform, intent on hunting down whatever food it was seeing over the lip.

Daryl and Rick walk up quickly and Rick ends it with a knife to the back of its skull. The walker gives one final gurgling hiss, its white eyes rolling up in its head, before he slumps to the ground and they're enveloped in silence again. Looking over the lip onto the platform, Rick can't immediately see any signs of life.

His mouth twists. "I feel like I'm about to change the future," he says.

"Hello?"

It's not Daryl that speaks, and immediately he and Rick duck down to peer over the edge of the platform. Daryl nudges Rick and jerks his head so that they creep towards one of the brick columns, putting themselves at a greater place to hide. The platform extends two ways, there's light coming from the hallway to the right and darkness to the left. As they watch the light flickers and moves closer as though someone is carrying a lantern or fire.

"Gareth? Is that you?"

The light becomes shaped, a yellowy glimmer against the darkness that's a little brighter than the emergency lights, and Rick sees a young man and woman shuffle out of the hallway. They're dirt-streaked and shiny with sweat, and are wearing multiple layers of clothes in various stages of dishevelment, like when sleeping in a bed and too lazy to recover all of the sheets and blankets, but just cold enough to grab what you can.

Daryl makes a low humming noise and Rick turns his head to look at him. Daryl jerks his head up towards the couple and Rick moves away from the pillar just a little to get a better look at them. He would guess they were brother and sister – they have the same sharp features and dark hair, but he honestly can't be sure. One thing he is sure of, however, is that neither of them is Famine. Which means he must venture farther in.

They walk over to the edge of the platform and the woman lifts her lantern, her eyes widening when she sees the fallen walker. "Someone was here," she says, urgently tapping on the man's arm.

The man nods, eyes narrowed as he looks down the tracks in the direction Rick and Daryl had come. Rick knows as soon as he turns they'll be spotted, so he makes a gut decision and hopes that neither of them are shoot-first kinds of people.

He lifts his arms above his head and steps out into the light. "Sorry, sorry!" he says, wincing when the woman gives a shriek that echoes all down the walls. The man has a knife that he grabs and brandishes towards Rick but neither of them seem to have guns. "Didn't mean to drop in on ya like this." He puts on his best charming cop voice, the voice he'd use to console the widows and victims while Shane did all the heavy lifting in terms of getting the criminals in the cars. He lowers his hands and tries to look as non-threatening as possible.

"You killed it?" the woman asks, nodding at the walker.

Rick nods. "Came at me and my friend here," he says, gesturing back to Daryl, who slinks from the pillar like an antsy housecat when greeted with strangers at the door. "There were a few more in the tunnel we took care of. Figured it would be safer in a spot like this, underground."

"It is," the woman says quietly, lowering her lantern. "Just the two of you?" she asks. The way she's looking them up and down is appraising and pointed, and Rick immediately knows better than to underestimate her.

Rick nods. "We had more," he says. "Lost 'em. S'just me and Daryl now. Name's Rick." He's by the platform lip now and offers his hand to shake.

The woman smiles at him and offers him a nod in return, but doesn't take his hand. Rick lets it drop and puts it on his hip instead and returns her smile. "Mary," she says, putting her free hand against her chest. "This is my son, Alex."

"Who's Gareth?" Daryl asks, finally stepping out into the light.

Mary's eyes flash. "My other son," she says. "He went out a while ago and hasn't been back. You didn't…see him, on your way in, did you?"

Rick shakes his head. "I'm sorry, no," he replies. He heaves a sigh and runs a hand through his hair. "Look, we don't wanna bother you. This place looks pretty safe, if Daryl and I could just sleep on the platform, we don't make any trouble."

Mary shakes her head. "No," she says sternly. "You shouldn't stay here."

"Mom," Alex says quietly, and gives her a meaningful look. "Come on. Gareth wouldn't turn them away." He gives them another look and sighs. "They're injured."

Mary presses her lips together, her fingers clenching up around the handle of the lantern, before she turns back to face Rick and Daryl. "You will stay on the platform," she says. "Until Gareth gets back, at least."

"Yes ma'am," Rick replies with a grateful smile. "Thank you."

Mary huffs and turns away, gesturing for Alex to follow, and they both go back down the hallway. Rick has no doubt that there are weapons and food stores down there, and the smell of cooking meat is enticing enough for him to want to try sneaking behind them, but he resists the urge. He turns to Daryl and smiles. "That went well."

"Dunno what that was meant to accomplish," Daryl mutters, unshouldering his crossbow and setting it on the platform before he takes a small running start and leaps for the edge. His shoulders and arms bulge with the effort and Rick winces at the pained grunt he lets out when his injured arm takes his weight, but he manages to get a knee up on the side and haul himself to his hands and knees onto the platform. He turns around and sits, legs slung over the side, and smirks down at Rick. "Whatcha doin' down there, Officer Friendly?"

His voice is teasing and playful, and happier than he's sounded in a while. Rick shrugs his shoulders and smiles up at him. "Maybe I like it down here," he says. He and Daryl both know he doesn't have the muscle mass or the strength to haul himself up like Daryl did. Not yet, at least.

"Yeah, bet sloppy Joe over there talks about as much as I do," Daryl says with a nod towards the fallen walker, and the joke startles a laugh out of Rick. Despite Daryl's grumpy comment from before he does seem to be in a genuinely good mood. Daryl when he's happy is wonderful. Rick feels like he's just stepped out into the warmth of the sun.

Rick bites his lower lip and sighs. "C'mon, help me up," he says, and holds out his uninjured arm. Daryl clamps his hand around Rick's forearm and pushes himself up into a crouch, and together they manage to lift Rick high enough that he can swing a leg up onto the platform and roll up onto it. They move away from the edge and sit down with their backs to the wall between the two tunnels.

Daryl is looking down the lit hallway. There's a door at the end where they can see Mary's lantern light that glows just a little more harshly and strongly than the rest of it. "They've got heat," Daryl murmurs, before he turns back to look at Rick. "Probably electricity, or at least some way to cook shit that ain't a fire. They have _meat_ , which means they have a place to store it."

"It's _Famine_ ," Rick says.

"They don't seem to be starvin'," Daryl replies. "Not like we are. Food's gonna run out at the quarry. Only so much huntin' I can do 'fore the animals catch wise. Or winter hits, whichever comes first."

"I'll think of something."

"That's not what I'm trying to say." Rick looks at him and Daryl makes an impatient noise, pulling one leg up so that he can rest his elbow on his knee and scratch at the side of his face. It looks like Daryl is trying to get the courage up to say something – a fight that he apparently loses, as he sighs heavily and shakes his head. "Forget about it."

"Daryl." Rick reaches out and rests a hand on Daryl's thigh, squeezing gently. "I want to know what you're thinking."

"No you don't," Daryl replies, but he doesn't move away from Rick's touch. Before Rick can reply they hear footsteps coming and abruptly pull apart, scrambling to their feet as Mary and Alex come back down the hallway. The scent of meat is overwhelming and Rick feels his mouth watering and hunger punching him square in the gut as they approach.

Alex is carrying a woolen blanket and hands it to them with a smile. "Here," he says. "You guys look in pretty shit shape, thought you could use it 'til Gareth gets here."

"Thank you," Rick says, taking it with a smile.

"We brought you some food," Mary offers, holding out a small tray with two small servings of what looks like pork. Rick swallows hard so that he doesn't start drooling, and wonders how something as simple as pork could have ever smelled so damn good. Daryl takes the tray with a nod and a grunt of thanks. "Go ahead and eat up. We have plenty. Gareth will be back soon, I'm sure."

"You're welcome to stay out here with us," Rick says. "That way you'll know straight away when your son comes back and he won't see us as the first thing. Might spook him a little."

Mary smiles and it feels like she's giving Rick some kind of reward. "That's a good idea. Alex, why don't you keep our guests company and I'll go get some more blankets for us to sit on. This floor is _filthy_."

Daryl raises an eyebrow, but if he has any opinions on Mary's limits in regards to cleanliness, he doesn't voice them. He turns and sits back down with his back against the wall, balancing the meat on his knees. Rick takes the blanket and sits down next to Daryl, throwing it over both of their laps. It's threadbare and smells vaguely of dust and old carrots but it traps the heat and he feels himself start to get warm under it.

Alex sits down across from them, cross-legged and resting his elbows on his thighs, hands folded together, leaning forward like an eager child awaiting their bedtime story. He's smiling and seems friendly enough, but there's something just a little _off_ about him.

Rick sighs and shakes his head. _Paranoid_.

"So, were you guys in Atlanta when it started?" Alex asks. If Rick were to guess he'd put Alex right between his and Daryl's age, maybe twenty-six or twenty-seven. His hair is curly and dark, his eyes an olive green-brown, his skin tan. Clearly he's used to being outside. Living in this place must be killing him.

Rick shakes his head. "We came from King County," he replies.

Alex gives a low whistle. "Damn, you were that far out and you came _into_ the city? What for?"

"My brother lives here," Daryl says, jumping in before Rick can reply. "I came in lookin' for him, met Rick on the road."

"Did you manage to find your brother?" Alex asks, sounding intrigued.

Daryl snorts. "Dead," he mutters, and Rick blinks as it clicks in his head what Daryl is doing. No one is coming for them. No one is going to look if they go missing. That's the angle they're playing here. "Walker chow long 'fore I got to him, if his remains were any sign."

"I'm so sorry," Alex says, and his pity and sorrow sound genuine. "I couldn't imagine what I'd do if something happened to my mom or my brother. They're my everything." His gaze shifts to Rick, and then he sighs when Rick volunteers no information about his family. Alex pulls his knees up and lets them fall back down, before he nods at the tray in Daryl's lap. "Eat! I'll go check on mom."

Rick and Daryl watch him go, before Daryl looks down at the tray. "We shouldn't eat this," he says quietly.

Rick frowns. "Why not?"

"What meat do you think this is, Rick?"

Rick shrugs. "Pork? Kinda looks like beef. Smells like pork though."

Daryl snorts, smirking, and then he shakes his head. "I've hunted, skinned and cooked just about everything you can eat on this planet," he says, pushing himself to his feet and carrying the tray over to the edge of the platform. Rick watches with wide eyes as he tips it over and he watches as the meat falls into the darkness.

"Daryl," he breathes, as Daryl comes back with the empty tray. He runs his fingers through the grease and smears it down his hand and across his mouth before gesturing for Rick to do the same so it looks like they ate it. Rick follows suit, rubbing the juice across his mouth and jaw so it looks like he ate it quickly and sloppily, and tries not to think about how fucking _delicious_ it smells and how strong the temptation is to lick his fingers clean.

"It was probably drugged, anyway," Daryl whispers as Mary and Alex reappear down the hallway. Mary's lantern puts the pair in a silhouette until they get close enough and Rick winces, looking up when Mary doesn't lower the light and comes to a stop a few feet away from them.

"Gareth's here," she says. "He wants you to come in."

Rick blinks, and pushes himself to his feet with Daryl. He starts forward, his shoulders tensing when Mary lifts a hand to stop Daryl from following.

"Just Rick," Mary says with a smile. "You have to wait here. We'll be right back."

She puts the same hand on Rick's shoulder. It's meant to be a motherly touch to direct a child the right way when out in the street, but to Rick it feels like meat hooks slicing into his skin. He feels cold to the core and isn't sure if it's because Death is with him, or if it's purely fear and anxiety that's making him shiver.

Daryl is looking at him, waiting for his signal, waiting for him to tell Daryl to start shooting. Rick bites his lip and nods to himself. This might be the only way to get to Famine. He has to get to the inside of the group, figure out who lives here, figure out where the horseman is hiding. And if that means going in alone, then so be it.

"We'll be right back," he tells Daryl with another meaningful nod, and Daryl lifts his chin, shifts his weight, and nods back.

"Don't be too long," Daryl mutters. "S'creepy as Hell down here."

"Oh, I'm sure Alex wouldn't mind keeping you company," Mary says with a kind smile, nodding to her son. Alex pushes himself away from between Mary and the wall and goes to stand by Daryl. Rick remembers the knife he was holding and prays that all of Daryl's instincts, reflexes, and his strength doesn't fail him now.

He resists the urge to whistle in case they think it's a signal for something more aggressive than _I love you_ , and he turns to smile at Mary.

"Shall we?" he asks, and she nods and drops her hand from his shoulder. Rick starts down the corridor and lets Mary shadow him like a wraith, one step behind and on his left. Where Famine might lurk. The sound of her boots along the floor are like hooves on concrete.

The hallway turns and opens into a second large room. There are escalators heading up in a set of two, but Rick doesn't see any light from above. It looks like the wall itself was caved in, either by design or by a happy coincidence. However it was sealed, Rick is sure that the train station is a fortress.

Mary gestures for him to turn away from the escalators and down towards the back wall where there's another hallway that extends in the opposite direction. Rick can see more lights down that way and he walks down the hallway and comes to a third room. This one is smaller and looks like a half-finished lounge area, or a place where it might have been a direct connection to the airport. The emergency lights here are a different color – a neon-ish blue instead of the yellowy light. Rick is reminded of hospitals.

There's a table in the room and a man sitting at it, facing away from them. Rick can see a large grill in the corner, still smoking with what Daryl had claimed was not any meat that had come from an animal. Now that he knows, the scent is almost sickening, and he does his best to ignore it.

"Gareth," Mary calls, and the man lifts his head. "We have a guest."

The man – Gareth, Rick now realizes – gets to his feet and turns around so that Rick can see his face. Or rather, he should be seeing his face. His eyes are human, the same olive-brown as his brother. His hair is lank and a dark brown, hanging across his forehead. But his _mouth_ , his _jaw_.

Rick blinks and the illusion fades, revealing human skin, a human face. Rick shudders and presses his lips together, fingers clenching tightly, and tries to make himself appear friendly and as non-threatening as possible. He needs to get Gareth close to him so that he can make it swift. Mary walks around to stand by her son and Rick can't shake the sound of her boots hitting the floor. He knows what a horse sounds like and the sound matches _exactly_.

Gareth grins at him and Rick thinks he can hear that low roar, the vacuum of Famine's insatiable hunger aching to consume everything it touches. "Hey there!" he greets amiably, walking around his chair and holding a hand out for Rick to shake. "Name's Gareth. My mom says you and your friend came up on us by the tracks, right?"

Rick nods and shakes Gareth's hand. The man digs his nails into Rick's wrist when they let their hold fall apart.

"Yeah, we should really seal that tunnel," Gareth mutters. "Lets all sorts of pests in."

Rick manages a weak smile. "I wanted to thank you for your hospitality," he says slowly. "Your mom and brother were very kind to give us food and blankets."

"Hey! It's the way of the world now, right? We gotta stick together now, eat or be eaten." Gareth's eyes flash up and down, taking in Rick's holstered pistol, his bloodied arm. He frowns. "You get attacked by one of those things?"

Rick wants to bare his teeth and hiss that Gareth knows _exactly_ what his wounds or from, but he holds his tongue and shakes his head. Gareth might not know he's a horseman, but Rick does. He can feel it thrumming in his bones and his arm itches to reach for his weapon and fire, but he used the last of the bullets in his pistol to weed out the walkers from the tunnel and gave the rest of his firearms to Glenn and T-Dog.

Instead, he shakes his head. "Nah, got myself stuck when I was running from a pack of them. If Daryl hadn't found me I probably wouldn't've made it."

Gareth smiles. His teeth look too sharp and pointed like those of a shark. "Right," he says. "Your…friend."

He steps forward, closer to Rick's space again, and Rick takes a step back. Admitting weakness, losing the ground, but that's okay for now. Until he gauges how much Gareth is aware, and until he can figure out the best way to kill him without it ending in a fight where he's outnumbered and likely outgunned, he should play ignorant. Play it safe.

"Where you from? Rick, was it?" Gareth asks. He walks like a predator, and watching him, Rick can't help but think that he wants to put the guy down anyway. Even if he wasn't Famine, he feels _evil_ , like oil slicking along Rick's skin. Rick looks at him and something righteous and angry burns in his chest. He wishes Daryl had given him his machete.

"King County," Rick replies. Gareth has him almost backed to the wall. The hallway extends to his right but it'll be a risk to head for it. The hallway is narrow and long and there's nowhere to dodge if Gareth is a faster runner or has a gun.

Gareth smiles. "Got a family?"

Rick shakes his head. Mary is coming up behind her son, a dark shadow at his shoulder. Rick blinks and sees Famine's gaping maw again, and his shadowy horse looming in the darkness behind him, and then when he blinks again the illusion is gone.

He swallows hard and sucks in a breath. He thinks he sees a shadow at the end of the hallway but he can't risk turning his head and drawing Gareth's and Mary's attention that way too. Maybe it's Daryl. Maybe it's Alex and Daryl is dead.

But no – Death would tell him. Even if Rick was about to die too, Death would tell him if Daryl had died. And he hasn't. Rick feels cold but he doesn't feel frozen, and he can see the shadow moving closer, slinking like a feral cat. It's not Alex. He's sure of that.

"I…have a son," Rick says, licking his lips and curling his fingers more closely to his sides. Gareth hums, nodding slowly. "And a wife."

Gareth smiles. "What's your wife's name, Rick?" he asks, stepping closer.

The shadow is almost in the room now, and Rick knows he has to risk it. "Lola," he says.

As soon as he says the name, an arrow appears in Mary's head and she makes a choked, shocked sound. Gareth whirls around, howling with pained rage when he sees her fall to the ground. "No!" he screams, and then grabs Rick and pulls him around to act as a human shield as Daryl steps into the light, crossbow raised and ready.

"Drop your weapon," Gareth hisses. Rick goes still and tense. He doesn't feel a weapon against his back or his throat, but he's sure Gareth has one on him. _Somewhere_. But that's not the biggest problem he's facing. Famine is _touching_ him.

He feels the thirst, first. It scrapes down his throat like he swallowed iron wool. Hunger is clawing from the pit of his stomach to join the iron filings in his chest and combines to something white-hot and blistering. After being so cold Rick feels like he's melting from the inside. His knees are unable to lock and his breathing is erratic and heavy.

"Let 'im go," Daryl growls, not lowering the weapon. He advances slowly, carefully sidestepping Mary's body, and Gareth yanks Rick back, one arm around his neck and the other gripping his hair tightly to keep him still.

Rick grimaces, reaching down and grabbing one of his knives, and jabs it back as hard as he can, letting out a pleased sound when he hears Gareth screech in pain. Gareth lets him go and Rick stumbles. It feels like he's too weak to stand and he reaches for Daryl like a frightened child. Daryl's hand finds his and hauls him upright. Through Daryl's touch Rick finds strength to stand and face Gareth. One of Rick's knives is lodged in his stomach and he's coughing up blood, glaring at the two of them with rabid hate.

Rick takes a deep breath. Now that Famine isn't touching him, the cold of Death is settling into his body again and feels familiar and cool, like an ice pack on a forehead hot with fever. He holds a hand out. "Give me your machete," he says. There's something right about the weapon. This might not be how it was meant to go, but when Daryl hands it to him he can't deny that he feels _good_ , holding the long blade. It feels almost like a scythe.

"This the guy?" Daryl asks, his arrow never moving from its aim on Gareth's forehead.

Rick nods and licks his lips. "Yeah.

"You sure?"

"Never been so sure in my life," he says, and steps forward, his grip tight on the handle. Gareth has fallen to his knees and is looking up at him with pure hatred, and bares his bloody teeth.

"Fuck you," he spits, blood spraying onto Rick's jeans and his boots. "You'll get eaten alive, you son of a bitch. They'll _devour_ you."

Rick grits his teeth and raises the machete, bringing it down in a swift motion across Gareth's neck. It's not a clean decapitation but it definitely kills the man. Still, Rick can't stop himself yanking the machete back and swinging again. The body falls to the side, blood spurting out as Rick swings again and again.

"Rick," Daryl says, stepping forward, but Rick doesn't stop. "Rick!"

Daryl catches his arm as he's about to swing again and Rick turns and growls at him. Daryl presses his lips together and yanks Rick's arm until he's forced to get to his feet and move away from Gareth. There's blood soaking his clothes now and sprayed across his face. Daryl carefully moves his hand down so that the machete is hanging loosely by his side, and lowers his crossbow.

He lifts his hand and wipes at the blood on Rick's face. "It's done now," he whispers, and Rick takes a deep breath, his eyes breaking from Daryl's sea-blue gaze and over to the grill.

"They were eating people," he says. "Weren't they?"

Daryl nods.

Rick closes his eyes and nods to himself. "What happened with Alex?"

Daryl shrugs. "Came at me with a knife, I sank it into his neck," he mutters, before he shifts his weight and looks down at the ground, an uncomfortable noise stuck in his throat. "Now I really have killed a guy."

"Slaying monsters doesn't count," Rick replies. He puts a hand on Daryl's cheek and forces him to lift his head. "You saved my life, Daryl. Thank you."

Daryl nods, his eyes dropping to Rick's mouth for a moment, before he clears his throat and pulls away. "Glenn and T-Dog are probably worried sick," he says. "And I'm officially creeped out as fuck. Let's get the Hell outta here."

"Daryl, wait," Rick says, reaching out and catching Daryl by the hem of his shirt. Daryl halts and looks back at him, something unreadable and urgent in his eyes. Rick wonders if he felt Famine's influence too, if he's as hungry and thirsty as Rick is, if he's shaking with as much need as Rick is. Rick wants to say all of this, wants to open his chest and expose his heart and his innermost thoughts and desires to Daryl, but he can't. Not right now, with the blood of another man on his hands and the darkness of the train station all around them.

But Daryl must understand. Of course he does, because Daryl is perfect and his soul must know its mate, know the needs and thoughts Rick is having but cannot give voice or action to, yet. He smiles and runs a hand through his hair, before he reaches out and brushes his hand gently across Rick's chest. "Me, too."


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like a FOOL I thought I'd have time to proof read this beforehand but I'm itching to post it now. I think you guys are gonna like it. There's ~feelings.

"Daryl, I want to talk to you about something."

Rick uses the light from Glenn's phone sparingly, even though there's more than forty percent left on the battery. It seems like the kind of thing they should ration, just in case. There's no telling when they might be trapped in darkness again, and electricity seems to be becoming one of those resources that are fast running out.

Daryl stops on the tracks and turns to face Rick, his silhouette just visible as Rick lowers the phone before he turns off the light. Rick has never been afraid of or uncomfortable in the dark, but as it descends of them again he can't deny the fact that he wants to move closer to Daryl, reassure himself that he's there and find solace in the presence of another living thing suffering the same circumstances. Of course, there's no telling if that longing is coming from that instinctual need, or something deeper.

"What is it, Rick?" Daryl's voice floats across the gap between them. He sounds so far away, and antsy. Maybe he's feeling the same need too.

Rick shifts his weight. The discomfort is crawling along his skin and sitting heavily on the base of his neck. "Did you…feel anything?" he asks. He wishes he could see Daryl's face, but that wouldn't be fair to shine the light on him and leave Rick in darkness. There's something powerful and secret in the dark. "When we saw Famine."

Daryl makes an uncomfortable noise. "What do you mean?"

"He didn't recognize me," Rick says, looking down at the ground. He drags his boot along the edge of one of the tracks. "But I felt…I _felt_ something when I saw him. Shouldn't he have felt it too? I don't…"

Daryl makes another sound, this time aggravated, like a huff from a tired animal. "You're sayin' he might notta been Famine?" Rick can imagine him, shifting his weight, running a hand through his hair. " _Damn it_ , Rick, you said you were sure! When I asked, you said you were _sure_."

"I was," Rick replies vehemently. "But I just…"

"What? Just mighta killed another man in cold blood? And _I_ …" Daryl growls low, and he sounds like he's closer now. Rick can feel his energy, his heat in the emptiness of the tunnel. He wants to reach out so desperately and digs his nails into his palms to stop himself doing so. "I killed two people, because I thought -. And I _let_ you -."

He falls silent, the words hanging in the air between them, suspended like flies in a web. "I killed him," Rick says and Daryl lets out a choked sound break the silence. "But did you feel anything? Did you feel _anything_?"

"I don't know what you're asking," Daryl says. He sounds cornered, like Rick has him up against a wall and is staring him down. If only there was _light_.

"Daryl, please," Rick whispers, and he doesn't know what he's begging for.

Daryl heaves another breath, and Rick feels the discomfort tighten on his neck like a vice grip. "I felt Death, leading me to him. When I looked at him, I was… _angry_ , like he was a sworn enemy of mine. I didn't know him, but I hated him, and I wanted to kill him." _Sometimes I feel this way around Shane, and I need to know I'm not crazy._

Daryl sighs, and Rick hears him start walking again, away from Rick and down the tracks again. Rick follows blindly, unwilling to reach for the phone and light their way. He doesn't think he could bear to see the look on Daryl's face right now.

He catches up until he feels the swing of Daryl's arm connect with his and sighs, the vice grip on his neck abruptly loosening and falling away. Nothing is wrong when Daryl is near him. "Rick," Daryl says, but doesn't stop walking, "here's what I know. I've gone _days_ without food before. After a while, the hunger goes away, it fades out because bodies are good at survivin' when food is scarce. But I'm starvin' right now. Even since I smelled that meat cookin' I felt like I was gonna die if I didn't eat anythin'. There's nothing in these tunnels. There should be rats, or birds, or _somethin'_ , but there ain't. They were eating people. Don't matter if he was who you say he was. They weren't good people."

"That doesn't answer my question," Rick replies. He reaches out and catches Daryl's wrist, forcing him to a halt, and feels the man turn around before he lets Daryl go. He can't see Daryl's face but imagines it's guarded, closed off in the darkness. "You promised -. And we said if we _both_ feel it, it's real. I know these…visions, this shit is in my head. You don't feel Death when he's near. So I gotta know – did you feel anything?"

"Like _what_?"

"Like _hunger_ ," Rick snaps, gritting his teeth. " _Thirst_. I'm _starving_ , and when you offered me water in the hotel I thought I might be able to drink it all dry, fill the fucking tub and drain it all. I _wanted_ , I hungered for so many things and I need to know you felt it too otherwise it's all in my head and I'm gonna keep killin' innocent people for _nothing_."

"Fine! _Yes_ , are you happy?" Daryl hisses, his voice low in the tunnel but echoing like they've stepped into a pit of snakes. Maybe this is Hell. Or Purgatory. "I _wanted,_ Rick. I knew somethin' was off from the second we saw those guys, and when that guy held his knife out to us all I could think of was slittin' his throat and drainin' him so that we'd have somethin' to eat, and drink. And that scares the ever lovin' _fuck_ outta me. I _want_ things."

"What did you want?" Rick presses, taking a step closer towards the direction of Daryl's voice. He can hear the man's breathing, heavy and agitated. He wants to reach out and soothe him, pet through his hair and calm his shaking. Daryl sounds like he's shaking, his breaths are uneven and hard. It feels like they both know exactly what they're trying to say but neither of them will give the ground.

"I wanted…"

Rick holds his breath and it feels like his feet are on hot coals instead of chilled train tracks. He lifts his hand and his fingers brush against Daryl's shirt. He grabs onto the clothing there, because it feels natural and _safe_ to fist his hand in Daryl's clothes. This is how it's always been with them, since what feels like the beginning of time. Before their souls inhabited mortal shells they must have been entwined like this, closer even, merged together into one being before some cruel God separated them by years and circumstance.

Daryl's hand touches his wrist. It's a light touch, feather-soft, but it feels electric. "This is…" Daryl's voice is shaky, weak, his presence feels like a frightened fawn instead of the proud predator it normally is. Rick wants to _touch_ him.

He pulls on Daryl's shirt until he feels the man give, moving closer. Daryl's chest touches Rick's shoulder and he can feel Daryl's breath on his face. There's blood on his skin, caking and dry now, but there's blood on Daryl, too. Blood Famine put there. They're both marked. Are they still feeling it just because of the residue? If they were to get clean, wash the mark of the horseman off of both of them, would it still feel this powerful? Would it feel like the most natural thing in the world to turn his head, to find Daryl's mouth with his, to fist his other hand in Daryl's hair and wring the sweetest sounds of nature from him?

"This ain't right, Rick," Daryl breathes, and his voice sends shivers all through Rick's body. He doesn't think he's ever been this thirsty in his entire life. He _hungers_. Daryl tries to pull away but it's a half-hearted attempt. Rick's hand doesn't budge.

"Tell me it doesn't feel right," Rick replies. After all, he won't force anything on Daryl. That isn't fair, no matter how much they're both burning with the desire for _whatever_ this is. "You told me what you know, now I'm gonna tell you what I know: Famine can't exploit, can't make worse, what ain't there."

Daryl licks his lips. His lips are dry, so chapped from dehydration. Rick can hear every little movement, every drag of his tongue across them. Maybe there's enough water in him to give some to Daryl, maybe he can feed the man what strength he has until he's nothing more than a husk, and then Daryl can give right back.

"If we both feel it, it's real," Rick whispers. "That's the truth, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Daryl says, and he moves a little closer again. His heat feels like it burns Rick's injured flesh.

"When I dream, he'll be missing," Rick continues, just as quietly. "I'm _sure_."

"You're sure?"

"About everything." After all, for as hot as Rick ran for Lori, it pales in comparison to the fire in his chest now. He turns his head and his nose knocks against Daryl's and it startles them both, because even as close as they were standing, he's sure neither of them thought they were _that_ close. Rick's other hand is trembling when he lifts it and finds Daryl's shoulder, and slides it up to cup the side of his neck. Daryl's pulse is racing, heavy under his skin.

One of Daryl's hands flies up, touches Rick's bloody jaw with amazing tenderness. The fire in Rick's chest spreads outwards and he ducks his head, desperate for more of Daryl's touch, starved for his warmth. They're both shivering.

"Do you think it matters?" Daryl asks, whisper-quiet. "If he wasn't Famine?"

"I'll prove it," Rick says. "Whatever it takes. I'll prove it to you, one way or another. I can't do this without you, Daryl."

"You don't need me."

"I do." Rick remembers saying these words, in a church, surrounded by his friends and family. Shane had been standing right next to them, a thousand-watt smile on his face. Carl was nothing more than a distant promise at that point but Rick knew there was a future then, just as he knows there's a future now. "Daryl, I do need you. And I know that -."

He can't say anything more, because Daryl's fingers have travelled to his cheek and he feels the other man's lips pressed gently to his bowed forehead. The touch silences Rick's words, brings them to a stuttering halt in his throat. He whimpers, his hand tightening in Daryl's shirt and tugging until he feels the man's chest pressed more firmly against his.

Daryl pulls away and licks his lips again. His hand moves from Rick's cheek to his chest and presses, not hard enough to force him away, but just firmly enough that he feels the desire in it. It's a touch as intimate and urgent as if they were both unclothed, grooms on their wedding night. Rick feels like he might explode.

Daryl sighs and Rick closes his eyes as he feels Daryl's forehead rest against his. "You're gonna ruin me," he breathes, and Rick isn't sure he means that as a promise or if it's said in resignation. All he knows is he might die if Daryl stops touching him now.

"Daryl -."

"It was real, Rick," Daryl says. "It was real."

Something broken-sounding tears itself out of Rick's chest, and his hands find the strength to loosen on Daryl and let him go. He aches for more of his touch immediately but knows that if he tries to reach for Daryl again he might never have the strength to release him. Already his devotion to Daryl runs so deep and so thick that the single touch of Daryl's lips on his forehead burns him, consumes him. He might not last long enough for anything else.

There are tears in his eyes that he doesn't remember feeling well up until they start to spill out, and he's glad Daryl can't see them in the darkness. Maybe he can hear them, though – or smell the wetness on Rick's face. He pulls away and wipes the back of his hand across his face.

Daryl whistles – their whistle. Low, high, low, and Rick manages a smile. "Thank you," he says, and reaches out one more time to touch Daryl's face, because he's weak. Daryl is his weakness. With this admission, he's put a target on Daryl's back. "Daryl, I -."

Daryl shushes him. His hand is still on Rick's chest and he lets it fall away. "Me, too."

 

 

When they emerge from the tunnel it's still night time, but Rick can see the teases of lighter clouds on the horizon signaling dawn. In the floodlights he can finally see Daryl and it feels like being born again. He's breathless, trembling and weak. Daryl looks about the same, heaving in deeply to get as much of the fresher air as he can.

He looks down at his hands and winces when he sees the blood covering them, caked into his fingernails and etched into the hair and lines on his arms. He's soaked in blood, his clothes almost unrecognizable for their original color. In comparison, Daryl almost looks clean.

They stare at each other and something passes between them, an understanding. Daryl nods his head. "Let's find some running water and make ourselves presentable," he mutters, and Rick nods. He knows large stations like this usually have some form of shower or facilities where commuters can wash the travel off of them. As one, perfectly in sync again, they step away from the tunnel and walk towards the main building structure. While they walk, Rick takes out Glenn's phone and opens it, scrolling through his contacts in the hope of finding a familiar name.

He spots Shane's number and his mouth twists, remembering the last time he tried to call his friend. When he gets to the 'T's, he sees T-Dog's name too and tries it, putting it on speaker as they walk.

"Rick, that you?" T-Dog asks on the fifth ring. His voice sounds muffled and quiet like he's hiding and trying to remain unnoticed.

Rick breathes a sigh of relief he hadn't realized he was holding on to. "Yeah, man," he says. "Good to hear your voice. Where are you guys?"

"We found a hotel near the station, holed up there for a while."

"It got running water?" Rick asks.

"Nah, sorry man. We're shit outta luck with that one."

"It's okay. Daryl and I are gonna try and find a place to wash up. We'll come meet you."

"Alright man, sounds good." T-Dog tells them the name of the hotel and the room number they're in and Rick hangs up, conscious of the battery life as he pockets the phone. He and Daryl duck into the main building and look around. In comparison to the other places, and in a definite change from the dirty train station platform, the main station itself looks almost clean. The floors are dirty and he can see footprints where people tracked in mud, but there's a distinct lack of blood in the area and it's strange how that more than anything strikes him as weird. He'd have thought with all the people trying to flee that this place would be a veritable buffet for the undead. Maybe it struck too quickly.

"Over here," Daryl says, nodding towards the public restrooms, and Rick follows him past the ticketing station towards the door. When they reach the door to the men's room Rick knocks on it six times and stands back to wait. Daryl huffs a laugh.

"What?" Rick asks, smiling. Daryl's humor is infectious.

"Six knocks," Daryl replies. "Woodmore always did that."

"Did he?" Rick asks nonchalantly. He waits another moment and deems the area clear, and pushes the door in, Daryl following along behind. "I never noticed."

"Liar," Daryl says affectionately.

The bathrooms are a soft grey color, the lighting unflattering but there as the automatic lights flicker to life above them. The stalls are all closed and Rick checks those first while Daryl goes to the back, where the showers are. Rick can hear his pushing back the curtains to check all of those as well. The place is empty and so Rick goes to the showers and plops his rucksack on one of the benches. Daryl set his crossbow down and Rick places the machete next to it.

He freezes, taking a good look at the weapon for the first time. "I've dreamed about this thing," he says quietly, reaching out to it. He remembers having it in his hands. _Rick. Lead us to water_. His people drowning in a river, or eaten alive by pursuing walkers.

Daryl bites his lower lip, looking at Rick from under the fringe of his greasy hair. "Yeah?" he asks, sounding stiff and uncomfortable.

"Yeah," Rick replies, and then straightens with a sigh. He has never been shy about showering around people, or being naked – from locker rooms to the police station to the facility, it was never really an option – so without preamble he pulls his shirt over his head and plops it down next to their things, pushing his boots off of his feet in the meantime.

"Steady, soldier," Daryl mutters, his cheeks turning pink as he looks away. "Haven't even checked the water yet."

He goes into one of the shower stalls and flicks at one of the handles experimentally, jumping back with a low curse as freezing water shoots out from the showerhead at the lightest touch. Gingerly, wincing, he grits his teeth and reaches past to shut the water back off.

"Well," Rick says happily, "guess that answers that."

"Yeah, like you knew," Daryl says with a roll of his eyes. He continues to stand awkwardly while Rick continues to shed his clothes, his eyes fixed stubbornly on some spot just over Rick's shoulder. "You, ah, you can go first."

Rick nods, figuring that Daryl might feel awkward undressing in front of him. That's okay. The darkness is a much safer place for confession and touches. Rick doesn't mind going first – and it does make more sense from a survival standpoint, that one of them keeps watch. He sheds the rest of his clothes and kicks them to a pile on the floor, before he steps into the shower cubicle that Daryl had tested and closes the curtain behind him.

He presses himself to one wall of the stall, gritting his teeth when his ass and shoulders rub against the cold tile, and reaches out to turn on the water only to hesitate when he sees the bandaging still clinging to his arm. It's shredded again and soaked in blood and when he tugs at it, it unwinds easily. He scoffs and kicks it out from under the curtain before he turns the water on and shoves it towards hot, hoping that it warms up quickly.

"Ain't the facility shower, I'll say that much," he hears Daryl say, his voice almost inaudible over the thrum of the running water and the splash of the shower. Rick sighs, tilting his head into the spray as it starts to heat up. It doesn't quite reach comfortably hot but it gets to bearably warm and he's definitely had worse. The pressure, too, is less than desirable, but it's not like beggars can be choosers.

He scrubs his nails through his hair, watching the water turn black as it washes away the mud, dirt, grime and blood clinging to his body. It feels like a while before the water stops being pure black and turns to a lighter brown, then pink, and Rick wonders when the last time was when he showered and wasn't covered in blood. It feels like so long ago since his time before it happened, and yet at the same time it feels like he's lived this way for a thousand years.

Once he feels decently clean he turns the water off and steps outside, blinking in surprise when he sees that Daryl's hasn't moved. Daryl's eyes snap to his face and then rake down and the pink in his cheeks darkens, before he clears his throat and looks away.

"My turn, I guess," he mutters, and then ducks into the stall still fully clothed. Rick hums and goes to his rucksack, pulling out a clean pair of clothes as Daryl flings his clothes over the curtain rail to hang while he showers. Rick takes them and sets them on the bench, since Daryl's clothes are still perfectly salvageable and he may prefer to dress back into them.

There isn't anything he can use to dry himself off so he stands for a moment, dripping onto the tile floor while the air dries him off. The water from his hair runs down his back in cold little rivulets and it feels like Death's touch, almost, and he feels comforted and calmed by it. When he's decently dry he pulls on his fresh change of clothes, just as he hears the water turn off.

There's a moment of awkward silence, before Rick clears his throat and grabs the machete. "I'm gonna clean this off," he says, knowing Daryl can't see what he's holding but also knowing Daryl doesn't care. If it's privacy Daryl needs then Rick will grant him that. He waits until he hears Daryl's grunt of acknowledgement before he walks back into the restroom part of the bathrooms and turns on one of the sinks, angling the blade beneath the stream of water so that he starts to turn the basin pink with blood as well.

He comes back when the blade is decently clean and finds Daryl shrugging on his leather vest. There's still a hum that he assumes is the water tank compensating, until he sees Daryl frown down at his jeans and realizes it's Glenn's phone, vibrating away.

He takes the phone out and sees Shane's name flashing across the screen. Frowning, he swipes to answer and puts it on speaker. "Hey," he greets.

"Hey, brother," Shane says, and he sounds agitated and restless. Rick knows this Shane – this is the Shane that has sat too long on a stake out and is starting to get antsy. This is the Shane that gets frustrated when the witnesses and snitches won't talk. "How you holdin' up? Everyone okay?"

Rick looks over in Daryl's direction and bites his lower lip. "Yeah, we're all good. About to meet up with Glenn and T-Dog. We'll probably start headin' back today."

"Good, good, that's good. Hey, I wanted to ask you – you good to talk right now?"

Rick looks over at Daryl again, who gives a half-hearted shrug. He changed into new clothes and starts to pack his old ones away before shouldering his crossbow. Rick grabs his rucksack and puts it on before putting his machete in his other hand and leading the way out of the bathrooms.

"Yeah, I can talk. What's up?"

"I wanted to ask what kinda vibes you got from that Ed guy."

Rick halts, looking down at the phone as though it will magically show Shane's face. He can imagine his friend now, running a hand through his hair, biting on his tongue. He looks at Daryl who is wearing an expression caught somewhere between confusion and impatience. He's looking right back at Rick and makes a vague 'Go on' gesture.

"How do you mean?" Rick asks slowly.

"I just, I mean. I know you got good instincts, despite everything else." Daryl's mouth twists into something ugly and he stifles a derisive sound. Rick reaches out and touches him lightly, marveling at how tense he gets whenever he hears someone speaking badly of Rick. It makes Rick's heart swell with affection. "And that guy just sets somethin' off in me. I wanted to ask if you got the same vibe or if I'm just paranoid."

Rick hums. "You remember Archie?" he asks, as he and Daryl start to walk out of the train station and towards the front entrance. They can see walkers ambling around the street through the doors, but it doesn't look like there are many of them. Definitely no more than they can handle.

Shane makes a noncommittal noise and Rick rolls his eyes. "He was a runner from Atlanta to DC, we busted him for possession. Real beady-eyed bastard but nice as fuck. You remember?"

"Oh yeah! Squirrelly kid. What about him?"

"That's the kinda vibe I get from Ed. He's too… _polite_ , you know?"

"Yeah, I get ya. That's kind of what I was thinkin' too." He hears Shane sigh on the other line and imagines his friend running his hand through his hair again. "I think he's abusin' his girls."

Rick stops, staring down at the phone again. Beside him, Daryl freezes in a similar way, and Rick thinks he might hear the man make a low growling nose. When Rick looks at him, Daryl's face is dark with anger.

"Are you sure?" Rick asks, and it's such a weighted question now. _Are you sure_. Because they have to be sure in this day and age. They don't have the luxury of being picky with their people. If nothing else, more men means more cannon fodder against the legions of undead.

Shane makes a frustrated sound. "I'll just feel better when you're back, brother, so you can help me keep an eye on him. I gotta go now. Be safe."

"You too," Rick says just as the line goes dead. He sighs and pockets the phone and Daryl raises an eyebrow at him. "What?"

"If that guy is doin' what Shane thinks he's doin', I'll put a bolt in his eye myself," is all he says, the words dark and heavy with promise, and in that moment Rick doesn't doubt him for a second. Daryl is a protective man, fiercely so, and he definitely doesn't hold as the kind of guy who would stand by and allow innocent people to suffer if he could do something about it.

They break out of the train station and Rick swings the machete through the closet walker, felling it in one blow, before they start heading in the opposite direction towards the motel T-Dog had said he and Glenn were holed up in.

"You know, the people in the facility did a lot of bad shit," Rick says after a moment when they round the corner and see the yellowy façade of the hotel. It looks like a clear shot and they hurry towards it, ears pricked and eyes peeled for any sudden walker. "Murder, abuse, all sorts."

"Kinda different when they're crazy," Daryl mutters.

"They weren't all crazy," Rick says quietly, and it comes out more challenging than he'd meant it. He is, after all, not a good person by any stretch of the imagination. He's killed – how many is it now? How many before his conscience can rest with the fact that he doesn't remember his body count? – six people already, four of them in cold blood. He will have to kill at least two more, not counting those who might stand in his way. He knows his views on Death aren't the same as everyone else's.

He remembers feeling scorn for the murderers. He can remember a time when he would know someone had killed someone else and hate them, and be disgusted by them. Not all of them were crazy. Some of them liked it. Some of them felt like the victim got what was coming to them. Sometimes it was an accident. He wonders if the guy who shot him feels any guilt.

Daryl turns to look at him, stance defensive like he's gearing up for a fight, so Rick tries to make himself appear non-threatening, shoulders tucked in and eyes lowered. "Not all of them were crazy," Rick repeats flicking his eyes up to gauge Daryl's expression, then away again. "Some of them were just bad people. But you took care of them."

"We've all done things," Daryl says, but he's not excusing the residents or the criminals. It sounds like he's trying to justify it to himself. His shoulders roll like he's shrugging off a heavy weight. "I don't want to talk about this, Rick."

"Okay," Rick says with a nod. "I understand."

"No, you don't." But Daryl doesn't wait for Rick's response. He squares his shoulders and keeps walking to the hotel, leaving Rick to trail along behind like a dog on a lead. They clear the first room and head up the stairwell which is thankfully well-lit. Rick remembers the last time he was in War's city and trapped in a dark stairwell like this and it had been a far from pleasant experience. He follows Daryl to the seventh floor, breathing heavily by the end, and the both of them go down the hallway and knock on room 707.

"Glenn, T-Dog, it's us," Rick calls quietly, and he hears bolts and chains unlocking and sliding out of place before Glenn opens the door and lets them in.

"Man, am I glad to see you guys," Glenn breathes, smiling widely. There's blood on the side of his face and Rick blinks, eyes widening when he sees it. T-Dog is sitting on one of the beds, flicking between one static TV station and the next, and sits up as they go in and Glenn secures the doors behind them. "How'd it go? Did you…find anything?"

_Did you feel anything?_

"What happened to you?" Daryl asks, nodding at Glenn's wound. The man winces, touching it gingerly, and sucks in a breath through his teeth.

"Walker threw me into a wall," he says with a roll of his eyes. "Bastard almost got me. Good thing T-Dog was there or I'da been walker chow."

Rick nods, swallowing back the guilty feeling that Glenn and T-Dog were in danger because of him. "You could have left," he says quietly. "But I'm glad you guys stayed." Glenn and T-Dog smile at him, and he heaves a breath. "It's done," he says, setting his bag on the spare bed. "We found Famine, and killed him."

"Assholes were eating _people_ ," Daryl adds with a grimace, and Glenn and T-Dog's eyes widen.

"Shit," T-Dog breathes.

"It's done now," Rick says, flexing his fingers around the strap of his bag. "We can leave, go back to camp. I don't think there's anything left for me here."

Daryl frowns. "What about War?"

Rick bites his lower lip and shakes his head. Without Famine in the city, the presence and sense of danger he'd felt walking in before has all but disappeared. Perhaps War was never here, and it was Famine he was sensing instead. It would make sense, he supposes. After all, what else had he felt in the city except incredible longing? What is longing but hunger disguised? Every moment he has been here he's been hungry and weak, thirsting for Daryl's presence and his touch. Now, without Famine here, the desperation has disappeared. The feelings are still there, but Rick is starting to think that maybe they simply always will be there.

Still, one thing is undeniable: "There are no horsemen in the city anymore," he says with a final nod, looking back at Daryl so that Daryl understands that he's not lying. Wherever the horsemen are, they aren't in Atlanta. "We can go back to the group. I'm sure…I'm sure something will come to me then. But for now, we all need to rest where we're relatively safe."

"I called Shane," T-Dog says. "Battery on my phone's out now."

"Shane called us," Daryl says with a nod. Rick waits for him to mention Ed, but Daryl remains silent. He shifts his weight instead and heaves another sigh. "I don't know about y'all, but I'm exhausted. We can sleep, and then head back."

"Sounds like a good plan," Glenn nods. "I'll stay up, watch the windows and doors. You guys sleep."

"Thank you," Rick says. He feels tired to the bone now that he's in a relatively safe place and the battle of the day has been won. The adrenaline has left his system like the aftereffects of a drug and he feels drained, tired to the bone. He sits down and then lays down on the bed, pushing his bag onto the floor and setting the machete over it.

"I'm good," Daryl says, waving T-Dog off as he makes to get up. He walks around and lays down on the other side of the bed, crossbow on the floor, and Rick smiles against his pillow as he feels Daryl's heat press up against his. He resists the urge to turn over and plaster himself against the other man. His knuckles go white with the willpower it takes.

"Wake us in an hour," he tells Glenn, who nods solemnly as T-Dog turns the TV off, giving up on trying to find a working news station. Rick closes his eyes and lets his breathing go even. Right before he falls asleep he feels an incredible chill sink into his bones, and a hand brushing through his clean, damp hair.

_Well done._


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter length but the next scene is going to be really long and I didn't want to break it up awkwardly. Plus this one might be a lil bit of a rollercoaster for you.
> 
> Warning for Rick making himself throw up.

A beep wakes Rick up. Then another. It's rhythmic, like dripping water onto the side of his face. He flinches, his eyes flying open when he realizes he's in a place that smells clean, like freshly laundered sheets, and stinks sharply of lemon-scented cleanser.

He shoves himself upright and hears the beeping get more rapid and more urgent. It's a box by his bed with lines scrolling across, measuring his heartbeat. There's a sheet of paper cataloguing the activity in his brain. It looks wild and unorganized, like a child scrawling across a coloring book.

He's been here before.

"No," he whispers, looking down at his hands. There's a band around his wrist, but it's not one like in the facility. It's plain and see-through, with a white tag labelling him with his name and his date of entry. There's an IV in the back of his hand and it's leading to a white bag hanging by his bed. Another IV, in his arm, leads to a yellowish bag that he remembers being a combination of nutrients to sate his body's needs while he was -.

An orderly walks in and stops in his tracks, wide eyes blinking rapidly. He's a young kid, his skin dark against the light green of his scrubs. Rick remembers seeing him getting eaten alive in his own home. He can't walk right – or maybe he won't walk right soon. He seems to stand tall enough on his own. His name is…

" _Noah_ ," Rick whispers, yanking at the IV in his hands. He's seen this kid before. He _knows_ him. The orderly blinks again and takes a step back, towards the door. He looks afraid. "Noah, where's Daryl? Where are -?"

The names freeze and die on his tongue. _Who are they_? The woman, the blonde one who dies in his arms. Have they died already? Where is everyone? The other one with cold, frightened eyes who Rick had looked at and _hated_ , with every fiber of his being.

"I need a doctor and security in here!" Noah yells, leaning out of the room to call down the hall. "And someone get a sedative!"

"No!" Rick hisses, pushing himself out of his bed and almost collapsing onto the floor. His arm burns where he ripped out the IV and his limbs feel heavy and weak. He remembers feeling like this before, before his physical therapy and before he'd been able to eat more than a cup of solid food at a time. Right after his coma. Is he still in his coma? Has he only now just woken up?

Was it all a dream?

"No," he says again, shaking his head vehemently. This is not real. This _can't_ be real.

"Officer Grimes," comes a voice, and Rick feels his blood go cold because he _knows_ that voice. It hisses, a tongue flickering against his ear as the serpent slides closer. It's the scrape of nails along a chalkboard, the run of a paintbrush when it twists and frays. Rick winces and straightens, turning around and leaning a heavy hand against the side of the bed.

The doctor is an unassuming man. He doesn't have the kind of face that would draw attention in a crowd. He's the generic, older white man that smiles for the cameras when the hospital is trying to raise awareness for flu season, or the one seen shaking hands with the board president when they cure a famous person.

Of course, the sick bastard would rather they all rot and die. Rick bares his teeth. He can see past the too-white smile that's the same shade as his pristine lab coat. His eyes penetrate deeper than the wrinkled smile and pale skin. Around the brown of his eyes, Rick sees the larger fly-like lenses blinking at him. He can hear the click of Pestilence's claws as they tap, tap, _tap_ against each other. The doctor presses his fingers together and laces them.

"What did you do to me?" Rick growls. Fear is curling around the back of his neck, because if Pestilence managed to capture him and get him away from his friends, from _Daryl_ , then he could have done anything. He could have made Rick sick – maybe he had in the first place. A mental sickness. Maybe Rick imagined it all, and wouldn't that be a cruel trick to play? What good is a hero if he can't even tell what his own quest is?

The doctor smiles at Rick, pointed teeth showing like needles, and Rick tries with all his might to stay upright. His knees feel like they're going to buckle. He's weak, and feels frail like an old man. His lungs are paper, his skin little more than webbing holding everything together. His heart is a slowing drum beat.

Noah's face floats into view next to Pestilence and Rick flinches, biting his lower lip. His legs finally give out and he collapses back on the bed. Noah goes to his side and pets the IVs back in and Rick can't fight him off. In his head he's yelling and screaming and thrashing around, but in reality all he can manage is a weak "No, _please_ , Noah" and a weak push at the kid's hands. Pestilence's shadow falls across his other side and Rick turns his head. He's sweaty and shaking, his eyes wide when he sees the horseman's face melt away to reveal his true form, fly-like and evil and grinning so widely.

"I'll see you around the campfire," Pestilence whispers. He leans down and his tongue snakes out, licking into Rick's gasping mouth. Rick groans and turns his head away, trying to get away – to run, to _crawl_ – but he can't move. "If you make it that far."

 

 

Rick wakes with a shriek, his heart pounding wildly in his chest and his hands shaking like his blood sugar is at its absolute lowest, or he's just had the adrenaline surge of his life. He throws himself off of the bed he's in, absently registering that it looks a lot like the hotel he fell asleep in.

Glenn and T-Dog let out startled yells and he hears Daryl stirring, but all he can think about it getting to the bathroom. He slams the door open and falls to his knees in front of the toilet, pushing the seat up so hard that it cracks, and shoves two fingers of his free hand into his mouth.

Hungry and underfed, his body isn't willing to let go of what food it does have easily, but Rick jams his fingers back as far as he can stand it, until he manages to retch up a few rounds of whatever bile and food he still has. It's a dark red like old blood. He hasn't eaten anything red in as long as he can remember. Maybe it is blood.

"Rick."

It's Daryl's voice and Rick can't even look up. He shoves his fingers back in his mouth, trying to get his gag reflex to react again, and this time when he heaves it comes out as a sob. His other hand is still hooked tightly around the edge of the toilet seat and he clenches his grip tighter and thinks about the last time he was in a similar setting. The last time, he'd snapped the toilet seat and run the edges up his wrists and drew on the walls.

He's a fucking nutjob.

Daryl's hand settles warm and light on his shoulder and Rick clenches his eyes tightly shut, gritting his teeth as he swallows and heaves and sobs again. His body feels _wrong_. Pestilence put something in him, he's sure of it – but maybe it's not sickness in the classical sense of the word. Maybe his mind is wasting away. What good is a disciple, a vessel for Death, if there is no mind to control it? Will he become nothing more than one of the walkers, a slave to hunger and nothing else?

"I -." He lets go of the toilet seat and reaches out to Daryl, finds his thigh and holds on tight enough that the other man lets out a noise like surprise and discomfort combined. Rick knows he's probably gripping too hard but he can't make himself let go. "I, _Daryl_ , oh my God…"

"It was just a dream," Daryl whispers, rubbing his hand back and forth across Rick's shoulders. "It was a dream, Rick. I'm here. We're both seeing it, so it's real, right?"

"I don't know that," Rick says. "What if it's all a trick? What if I never woke up?"

Another sob racks his body and it makes him want to puke again. He lets go of Daryl's thigh and pushes himself up higher on his knees so that he can aim for the bowl more directly. When he's done, he sits back and wipes his forearm across his mouth and flushes the toilet, only realizing too late that there's no running water in the hotel, so while it attempts to rinse the smell and sight away, it doesn't quite do the job.

Daryl reaches out and closes the toilet lid, slowly so that he can make sure Rick's body is out of the way, and then forcibly turns him so that Rick has no choice but to face Daryl. He can barely meet the man's eyes. They're both exhausted to the bone and Rick's sure his nightmare didn't make for restful sleep for either of them. Now that he has time to take stock of himself, he realizes he's sweating and stinks of it, the stress making his hands shake and his legs tremble. Or maybe that's just Daryl's proximity.

Daryl cups his face with both hands and looks Rick in the eye steadily, searching for something. Rick doesn't know what. Then he presses his lips together and rubs his thumbs under Rick's eyes. Rick can feel the tenderness where sleep loss has made them puffy, and crying has made his cheeks sticky with tears. He bites his lower lip and tastes salt.

"What did you dream about?" he asks quietly. Rick bites his lip again and tries to look away from him, towards the door, but Daryl's hands tighten and imperceptibly tug his gaze back. "No. Look at me. What did you dream about?"

Rick feels a whine stuck in his throat – he feels like a beaten dog. He reaches out and touches Daryl's chin just to feel it against his fingers. It's the same hand he used to make himself throw up. If Daryl notices, he doesn't mention it.

"I woke up," he says, and Daryl's eyes flash in frustration before Rick continues; "I woke up and it was like I woke up from my coma. Nothing had happened. But the orderly was a kid I – I've _dreamed_ about him. He dies." Rick sighs and Daryl's thumbs rub under his eyes again, his expression silently encouraging Rick on. "So I didn't know where I was, or _when_ I was. I thought something had happened to you and I'd been sick, or _something_ was wrong. And then…"

Rick's fist clenches and he stifles a soft growl behind his teeth. "Pestilence was there," he says. "He came to me and he poisoned me. He knows I'm after him and he's going to try his damnedest to make sure I never get to him."

Daryl blinks, nodding once, and lets go of Rick's face. "Okay," he says, and grabs Rick's hands. Their fingers lace together without prompting and then Daryl pushes himself to his feet, hauling Rick up with him. There are two small complimentary bottles of water by the sink and Daryl grabs one and hands it to him. "Wash your hands and your mouth out. We overslept. We should get moving."

He grabs the other bottle and heads for the door – that Rick now sees it closed. Rick reaches out and catches Daryl's hand. "That's all you have to say?" Rick demands.

Daryl blinks at him, eyebrows raising. "You expectin' a big show?"

Rick falters, biting his lower lip. "I guess I just…ain't used to what I say just being accepted like that," he says. "It ain't like you."

Daryl manages a small smile. "Rick," he says, and takes a step closer. Rick's eyes widen as Daryl corners him against the counter and places his hands on Rick's chest. His hands clench in Rick's shirt and pull him in and Rick stiffens in surprise when he feels Daryl's mouth against his, soft and warm. It's nothing like he expected, it burns him like he's kissing an open flame.

When Daryl pulls back, his eyes are white and white, lined like those of a fly, and his teeth are pointed. Rick jerks in surprise and shoves him back, wincing when his shirt rips in Pestilence's claws. "What makes you think you know what I'm like?"

"No," Rick whispers, wiping at his mouth. His voice isn't strong through he desperately tries to make it so. He wants to yell, to attack, but he can't. It's not fear making him weak, he's sure of it – but he feels sick, and unsure, and -. "Not him. _You can't take him from me._ "

"You misunderstand," Pestilence says. He's still wearing Daryl's skin. Daryl's arms spread wide and he smiles. "I'm giving him to you. Isn't that what you wanted?"

Daryl reaches for him and Rick tries to push him off but he can't overpower him. Daryl's hands grab his biceps and Rick expects him to slide closer again, slip more poison into his mouth. What he isn't expecting is for Daryl's hands to tighten and shake him. The expression on Pestilence's face doesn't change but when he speaks Daryl sounds frightened and urgent.

"Rick! Wake up, _Rick!_ It's a dream, you're having a dream."

Rick closes his eyes as tightly as he can and grits his teeth. He fights his arms free of Daryl's grip and lashes out, shattering the bathroom mirror. He hears Daryl give a yelp of surprise but doesn't dare open his eyes. His eyes can be tricked.

He grabs a shard of mirror and holds it tightly enough in his hand that his palm gives way and splits open, soaking the piece of glass with blood. He feels the tension in the room shift, feels the weakness leach from his bones, and he knows he's awake then. _Really_ awake.

He doesn't open his eyes. Yet. "Daryl," he whispers, and hears the man move closer. "Daryl, is this real?"

Daryl lets out a heavy breath through his nose. "Yes," he replies, just as lowly.

Rick nods, squeezing the glass more tightly. Pain shoots up his arm like a lightning strike and he breathes in a heavy, shuddering breath. "What else is real?" he asks.

There's a pause and Rick bites his lower lip hard enough to hurt. He bows his head, placing both hands on the side of the counter, and opens his eyes to stare down at the dark countertop. His feet are still in his boots and there's mud and blood on them. They're scuffed up, dirty, just like him. Blood is dripping down onto the floor.

Daryl steps into his space, his shadow crossing Rick's gaze, and Rick closes his eyes again as he feels Daryl's hand run down his arm. He gently cups Rick's wrist, pulling his fingers away from the shard of glass and taking it away from him.

He curls Rick's fingers back around his bloody palm and squeezes it tight. "This is real," Daryl says.

"Pestilence tricked me," Rick says. "He could be doing it again. Right now." He opens his eyes and looks over to Daryl, finally. It does feel different, he thinks. Daryl's eyes are a different blue – the dark, worried storm cloud color. It makes a lot more sense than the happier sea blue he'd seen in his dream. His skin is flushed from sleeping in a hot room and from worry, his hair a mess from sleep. There's a crease indented in his skin from where the sheets pressed against him too hard. He's so perfectly imperfect like that, Rick can't imagine how he confused this Daryl for anything else.

Daryl blinks at him and bites his lower lip, looking down. "Can't prove a negative, Rick," he says. "Can't prove somethin' ain't somethin'."

Rick nods, accepting that. It occurs to him, then, that Pestilence must not be able to get inside of his head. He doesn't know secrets that Rick doesn't tell him himself. What Daryl had said – we both see it, it's real – that's what Rick had said in Famine's tunnel. Pestilence must have _heard_ him. Or maybe they swap campfire stories before trying to kill him.

He huffs a laugh, straightening up, and looks at himself in the mirror. When he wipes his hand over his mouth he smears a trail of blood across his lips, but doesn't move to wipe it off. "How long did we sleep?" he asks.

Daryl frowns, licking his lips. "About an hour," he says. "Plenty of light left to get the fuck outta dodge."

"I think that'd be best," Rick says with a nod. "Where are Glenn and T-Dog?"

"Doin' one last run of the other rooms," Daryl says. "I told them to when I first noticed you weren't sleepin' right. Figured they didn't need to see anything if it…went that way."

"You mean if I went completely insane?"

Daryl smirks, one corner of his mouth quirking up higher than the other, and he turns around and leaves the bathroom. Rick follows him, looking around the room. Everything looks packed and ready to go. They should be able to just pick up and go when Glenn and T-Dog come back.

"Let's not stretch anythin' Rick," Daryl says. "You've already lost it. Let's just keep it our little secret for now, yeah?"

Rick huffs a soft laugh, looking down at his feet. "Yeah," he says sheepishly. "I guess that works for now."


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still technically Tuesday somewhere, right?  
> Meet Michonne! \o/

Glenn and T-Dog return with pilfered bottles of shampoo, conditioner, body wash, detergent, toilet paper, and towels and blankets from a maid's cart they'd raided as well as the other rooms that neighbor the one they'd holed up in while Rick and Daryl went horseman hunting. They use one of the fitted sheets to pile everything into and T-Dog acts as the muscle, hefting their haul onto his back once they have it all secure.

"Don't let me get eaten," he jokes, but Rick can see in his eyes how worried he is. He hasn't had the time to get used to the idea of danger being around every corner, not like Rick has.

Rick smiles and makes a point to make sure T-Dog can see him, Glenn or Daryl at any given time as they make their way out of the hotel and towards the cars. While they move, Rick's mind is whirring away. He's still deeply disturbed by the dreams and visions that had been planted in his brain. He's sure that Atlanta holds nothing for them now, but maybe Pestilence intends to keep him here so that he can't escape and can't move on.

But if not Atlanta, where? Death has yet to reappear to him, but perhaps Rick has been too busy, his mind too clouded, to focus on his companion and any visions Death might be giving him. Still, it might be lazy and arrogant to rely on Death to give him all the answers.

He decides, as they wipe through a small herd of walkers and make it to the cars, that perhaps the next step should be a crowdsourced idea. After all, if he's completely honest with the whole group it will accomplish a number of things. Firstly, he will know exactly who he can trust and exactly what people will be thinking of him. Secondly, he will have to worry less about causing fear and confusion in his pack should he have another violent or disturbing vision. Not only that, but confessing his prophecy and his visions to the group might mean they will be privy to his knowledge and his experience as well and be able to help him find clues in his vision to lead him to the next destination on his mission.

Only one thing holds him back from outright deciding, and that is his family. Shane, in particular. If the man is War, Rick can't afford to bring him into close confidence. As much as it hurts him to think about, he has to entertain the possibility that if Shane is War, then any weakness Rick exposes is something he will be able to take advantage of.

He turns his head to look at Daryl, who is in the driver's seat and waiting for Glenn to lead the way out of the parking lot and out of the city. His phone apparently works well enough to conjure up the Map app, even though it won't let him see any crashes or blockages in the city sprawl. Rick trusts Glenn to lead them out, though.

Daryl's eyes shift in his direction and he bites on his lower lip. "What you starin' at me for?" he demands, shifting his weight uneasily. It's not a negative discomfort, though. Rick gets the impression that Daryl feels immense pleasure at being the sole object of Rick's focus. He just doesn't like not knowing _why_ he's being stared at.

"I'm trying to decide if I should just tell the rest of the group about the horsemen," Rick says plainly, sure that the most direct approach to this conversation will garner the most honest response.

He's not wrong. Daryl's eyes widen and he turns to stare at Rick for a second before the roll of Glenn's red roof catches his attention and he slides into action, starting the Jeep and putting his focus on the road as he follows Glenn's Challenger.

"I see," Daryl says evenly, swallowing hard enough that his throat clicks. Rick can't take his eyes off Daryl, nor does he want to. He sits slack in his seat and props his elbow up against the half-rolled down window, head braced on his hand so that he can continue to look in Daryl's direction. "Why in all of God's green Earth you wanna do somethin' stupid like that?"

Rick smiles. "Glenn and T-Dog reacted well enough to it," he says with a shrug. "If the whole group knows, they might be able to help me."

Daryl makes a small, querying sound, and Rick sighs.

"I don't know who the next horseman is," Rick says quietly. "I think Shane might be War, but until I'm _sure_ I can't act on it. Which means I must find Pestilence next, but I don't even know where to start." Daryl hums. "Death hasn't given me any clues and I'm…afraid to go to sleep. He haunts me there."

He feels Daryl's throat click again and sees Daryl's eyes flash in his direction for a brief moment before he's forced to look back at the road. "You never did tell me what you dreamed about," he says softly.

Rick blinks, and remembers that's true. After all, the Daryl he'd told about the dream hadn't been the real Daryl, and how terrifying is that revelation? "I'm scared," he says instead of describing the dream. He's not sure he wants Daryl to know what Pestilence had him do. It was just a kiss, but when every touch and every action between them is so intimate and so intense, how can he rob Daryl of that? He doesn't want to look at Daryl and see those fly-like eyes. He doesn't want to taste poison on Daryl's tongue. He doesn't want Daryl to think Rick might flinch whenever he reaches for Rick.

Daryl makes another soft, encouraging sound, and reaches out to rest his free hand on Rick's thigh. He gives it a gentle squeeze. "I know," he says instead of some other meaningless platitude designed to lie and trick Rick into thinking everything's alright. That's what Lori would have done. That's what Rick would have done right back. Maybe. He's never been good at sugarcoating his words _or_ his actions. Not unless it was part of the job and someone desperately needed him to do it.

"I don't know if I should ever go back to sleep," Rick whispers, laying his hand over the back of Daryl's, their fingers curling together. "But if I don't sleep, I won't know if Gareth was Famine, and Death might never come to me again. I'll be flying blind. I need _help_ , Daryl. I need to be able to talk these things through with the group. They might have ideas, or see things that I missed in my visions, or might know something that we don't. I have to _try_."

"They'll burn you alive," Daryl says, his voice hard. "No. You can't tell 'em."

"Daryl -."

" _No_." Abruptly Daryl yanks his hand away and curls it around the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white when Rick lets out an involuntary whimper at the loss of his touch. "You were damn fuckin' lucky that Glenn and T-Dog accepted your story and you fuckin' know it. People don't just _accept_ prophecies and visions, Rick. They're going to call you crazy. They'll run you out. Merle will -."

He stops, almost physically biting his tongue. Rick sees the pink of it pressing between his teeth. He blinks, straightening up. "Merle will…what, Daryl?"

Daryl looks at him, then back at the road. He takes a short, shallow breath, like someone gearing up to get punched in the gut. "Just keep it to yourself," he says, his voice hard and urgent and begging fiercely. His knuckles are still uncomfortably white and his eyes are bright, the dark, sad blue of a lonely lake at night. "Please."

Rick looks at the side of Daryl's face for another long moment, before he sighs and closes his eyes and turns back so that he's sitting properly in the passenger's seat. "Maybe you're right," he says slowly, and hears Daryl's almost inaudible release of breath. "I mean, the last time I talked to the wrong people about what I saw, they put me in that facility."

"Right," Daryl breathes. "Exactly."

"Maybe that's where I belong."

"Don't start."

"I'm just saying." Rick shrugs, opening his eyes and staring blankly at the blood-spattered white of Glenn's license plate. "You don't think I'm crazy. Glenn and T-Dog might, but they also think I'm onto something. That kinda good luck doesn't just keep goin' forever."

"Rick -."

"Merle will do somethin'," Rick continues, lifting his eyes to the horizon as Atlanta starts to melt away from them, giving way to highway with houses dotted along, and then nothing but grass verges, fields and trees. "Maybe team up with Shane. They'll drive me out, put me in a strait jacket and walk me along behind y'all on a fuckin' _leash_."

"Rick! Stop it!" Daryl growls, glaring at Rick out of the corner of his eye. "You know they ain't like that."

"Do I?" Rick says darkly. There's no real anger bubbling in his chest. Truthfully he's not sure why he's picking this fight with Daryl at all, or if he's trying to prove a point. His mouth tastes sour like he hasn't brushed his teeth in years, or just drank a pint of apple cider vinegar.

Abruptly they hear a screech of brakes and Glenn's car veers sharply off the highway. Daryl curses, slamming on the brakes and turning off behind him as they pull onto the shoulder. Rick straightens up, reaching for his pistol as he squints against the glare.

There's an obstacle ahead. A blockade would be the wrong word, as blockade implies intent. What Rick sees now can only be described as a disaster. They had just turned the corner on the highway and the sight of it had brought Glenn to a screeching halt. There are two furniture trucks, one of which looks like it jackknifed onto the exit ramp, sending the second one crashing into the median. Cars are in various states of askew and disarray. Some look like they caught fire and burned out, others are smashed beyond repair.

The entire mess is awash with walkers. There's more than Rick has ever seen in one spot before and he feels his heart give a little staccato beat of fear. He reaches for Daryl and squeezes his bicep gently.

"Reverse," he says. "Slowly. Try and keep quiet."

Both Glenn and T-Dog had their phones. Neither Rick nor Daryl did. He hopes that they'll see Daryl and Rick slowly edging back and get the hint. Daryl nods and shifts the Jeep into reverse, wincing when it gives a creak of protest, and starts to back up. After a moment it seems like Glenn gets the hint as well because they see the white reverse lights flash up and the Challenger starts to roll back in front of them.

A couple of walkers hear them and turn, hissing and snarling as they see the moving vehicles and the promise of fresh meat inside. Rick digs his fingers a little more tightly into Daryl's arm but tries not to give away how scared he is by the sight of the herd slowly becoming aware of them.

Then, Glenn, unable to see well because of the Challenger's ridiculously large blind spots, backs up into one of the cars that had not been part of the crash but clearly abandoned and half-smashed. It looks like it was hit in the driver-side door. A walker lunges itself at the door and then falls onto the horn.

The herd seem to freeze. Rick watches with wide eyes as Glenn's car's red brake lights glow. The air seems suddenly so much darker, like night has descended and their headlights are blaring like beacons calling the dead to them.

Rick lets out a low curse and rolls his window down the rest of the way and sticks his head out of the window. "Glenn! Turn around and fucking drive!" he yells, before he hears a hiss behind him and ducks back into the car just in time for a walker to lunge mere inches from where his head just was. He grits his teeth and slams the machete into its skull.

Daryl slams on the horn and abruptly jerks the car into drive, pulling around in a u-turn. He knocks a couple of cars out of the way as he does so but there's no time to give a shit about things like that. The horn of the abandoned car is still blaring and the herd has definitely heard and seen them now.

Daryl slams his foot on the gas and the Jeep lurches forward with a dull roar.

Rick sucks in a breath and blinks rapidly, trying to calm his racing heartbeat. "They followin'?" he asks.

Daryl's eyes flick up and he breathes out a sigh of relief. "Yeah," he says, just as the Challenger's headlights flash across the passenger side mirror. The red car is quick to overtake and then Glenn veers to the right, onto one of the exit ramps, and Daryl follows suit. The sign says it will take them North, around the belt highway of Atlanta, and Rick breathes out heavily as they merge and cross over onto the side of the road where it's practically empty, since no one was trying to flee _into_ the city when the outbreak happened.

"That was a close one," Rick murmurs.

Daryl huffs. "So much for good fucking luck," he bites out. He's still angry, bitter and with his hackles raised. Rick wants to reach out and soothe him, stroke him like an agitated cat. But agitated cats lash out with teeth and claws and they'll hiss something fierce if continuously threatened.

Rick closes his eyes and breathes out. "I'm sorry," he says, and bites his lip when Daryl gives no answer. "I don’t know why I was fighting with you, or trying to pick a fight. I don't know what came over me."

"You're just tired," Daryl says. He sounds tired, too. Exhausted, even. "S'natural."

"You sound experienced," Rick murmurs.

Daryl shrugs one shoulder and lets the wheel go with one hand to bite at his cuticles. "I know you said…what you said," he begins, "but you should try to get some sleep. You'll feel better. Maybe."

Rick manages a tired smile. So Daryl wants to be rid of him for a moment. It probably won't be a peaceful moment, but Rick will give Daryl anything that it is within his power to give. "Okay," he says. "Please, wake me if you need me. For anythin'."

"Course," Daryl replies, and his voice is thin but heavy with sincerity. "Sleep well, Rick."

 

 

Rick thinks he might be lucid dreaming. He is aware of Daryl, sitting next to him in the driver's seat. He is aware of the heat beating down on his face from the sun slanting in through the window against which he's rested his arm and his head. He's aware of the rumble of the Jeep, the slight tilt and lean when it curves around the roads and navigates the hilly center of Atlanta's downtown area. He thinks, every now and again, he can hear Daryl humming to himself in a tune that's familiar and sweet. Rick wants to join him but he can't make his mouth move.

He feels pressure on his lungs like he's lying on his back and someone in sitting on him. His breathing is slow and heavy enough that the only thing giving him comfort is that he knows his body's instinctive reaction to draw in breath will keep him from suffocating. Luckily his brain is reliable in that regard. Even if he feels like he can't open his mouth and take in another breath, his lungs will snap into action, his brain will send just the right signal to make his ribs expand and his body breathe in. It'll be alright.

He can't open his eyes but he isn't sure he wants to. People see terrifying things when they lucid dream. Then again, Rick sees terrifying things whether he's awake, asleep, or caught somewhere in between.

He digs his nails into his thighs and sucks in a breath, his forehead rolling against the half-open window. The glass is warm and thrums against his skull in a bass, rhythmic growl that sends shocks all down his neck. It's almost like a massage. His head is warm but his shoulders are cold and he wishes he could roll over so that his back could be warm and his head can be cold.

His lungs start to burn a little again, and then hitch, and then he feels the car slow to a stop. It takes a massive amount of strength for him to sit upright, to heave in a breath and let his lips part, and then to slowly open his eyes.

They've crested the top of a hill, and Rick feels his stomach get knotted tightly around itself and grow cold as he stares down into a field. There's a single, solitary campfire at the bottom of it, and a splash of black that looks like tents and encampments all around.

"Daryl," Rick says weakly, and reaches out to grab the man's arm. Daryl looks at him and Rick raises his eyes, monumentally grateful in that moment that he sees the man's blue eyes and knows it's _Daryl_. This isn't a trick. This is real. "Where are we?"

"North of the quarry," Daryl replies roughly. "Roads were totally fucked for the most part. Glenn found us a way out though."

As he speaks, Rick becomes aware of the red Challenger pulling up beside them. The lights dim and Rick looks around, aware that it's darker than he'd expected it to be outside. It's almost dusk, dark enough that the headlights of the car spilling out over the grass are sure to draw attention.

"Daryl," Rick says again. He hasn't let go of the other man's arm. Something uneasy and unpleasant stirs in his heart and he digs his nails into Daryl's forearm, gritting his teeth. He feels like, though he knows it's not the case, something is yanking him down through the floor by his heels, like there's something very heavy on his shoulders. He's not sure he has the strength to get out of the car and stand on his own two feet.

Below them, the campfire flickers warmly, inviting amidst the dark green carpet of the field in front of them. There are tents around, blacker squares amidst the forest green, and Rick can see people milling about. They must have seen them – Daryl still has the Jeep headlights on, after all. He doesn't see any horses, and his gut, though tight with anxiety, isn't tense with fear. He doesn't look down on the campfire and see the horsemen.

Glenn opens the door and Daryl follows suit, and then Glenn is opening his door as well and Rick almost falls out in his desperate scramble to get around the front of the car and be near Daryl again. Just as he makes it to the other man and their silhouettes block out part of the headlights, they hear a voice shouting;

"Hey! Stop right there!"

Glenn and T-Dog raise their hands in a pacifying gesture and Rick and Daryl slowly follow suit. Three dark shapes break off from the main crowd and start trudging up the little hill towards them. One of them has a gun aimed at their knees, kept lax and low so as not to appear overly threatening at first.

"We don't mean any trouble," Glenn says as the trio step into the light. It's two men and a woman. The men are skinny, and all three of them have dark skin and solemn brown eyes that shine in the headlights as they approach. They come to a stop a little way away from the group and stand tall, stances non-aggressive but strong nonetheless. The woman has a thick mane of dreadlocks held back by a scarf. There's a katana slung across her back. The center man is holding a rifle, the third has a large knife reminiscent of forest explorers. It's serrated on one edge and Rick swallows, unable to stop himself imagining it slicing through the man's arm and into his mouth, severing his bottom jaw from the rest of his skull.

He looks back at the woman, recognition flickering in the back of his head. He knows this woman, somehow. Or he will. Or he might have in another life. At this point he's sure he's changed so much of the future that nothing is certain.

"Where you guys from?" the lead guy asks after what feels like an eternity, even though Rick knows it can't have been more than a minute since Glenn spoke. He directs his gaze towards the man and sees his eyes narrowed, his body language shifting so that he stands as more of a blockade between Rick and the woman. Whether he's protective or her, or jealous of Rick's eyes on her, Rick can't say.

Rick licks his lips and takes a small step forward, keeping his hands raised when the three of them step back and reach for their weapons. Rick can't imagine he makes a particularly intimidating picture, but a wolf could pass as a dog if someone wasn't paying attention. He curls his fingers and puts his eyes on the center man.

"We were in Atlanta," he says. The woman's eyes widen for a moment, the whites of them shining in the headlights, before she schools her expression. "We're heading back to our group. They're farther west."

"You got a group?" the lead man asks, his narrow eyes still suspiciously set on Rick's face. He looks to the other man, and then the woman, and straightens up. "How many?"

"Enough to be friends," Rick replies. "Not enough to be a threat."

The man smiles abruptly, his teeth white as bleached bone. "Hah! I like you, man. You're funny," he says, lowering his rifle a little more until the muzzle is pointed at the ground. He reaches out his hand for Rick to shake and Rick does after a moment, relaxing his stance and sliding his palm against the other man's. His grip is firm and they shake once before letting go. "I'm Mike. This is my boy Terry, my girl Michonne. We found this camp a few days ago. Lots of refugees camped out here."

"It's a good spot," Rick says lightly, even though it's a terrible spot. The high hills and the open flame mean they're an easy target and they won't see anything coming until it's too late. Walkers gain speed downhill. He shifts his weight back so that he's standing more in line with Daryl and Glenn and T-Dog, and Daryl's body shifts so that he's closer to Rick like Mike moved closer to Michonne. Rick smiles.

"Are you just passing through then?" Michonne asks, her fingers curled into the two front loops of her jeans, her hip cocked to one side, stance relaxed now that Mike seems to have deemed them harmless enough.

Glenn nods. "We were just heading back, really. We didn't mean to come across you guys. It's just the west highway was blocked off and we came farther North than we meant to."

"You just came from Atlanta," Terry says, and they all nod again. "Did you see many…people? Any survivors?"

Rick exchanges a look with Daryl, before he shakes his head. "Sorry, no," he says. "But if we see more we'll send them your way, with your permission, if they don't wanna stay with us."

Mike smiles and holds out his hand for another shake. "My man," he says and it sounds like an agreement, so Rick nods. "And, hey, if you guys and your group wanna head our way too, you're more than welcome. We gotta stick together at the end of the world."

Rick manages a weak smile, before they all pile back into their cars and back away from the crest of the hill. Rick is silent, his eyes fixed on the leather wrapped around Michonne's katana as they reverse out, before Daryl turns the car and the sight of the three of them is lost.

"That was surreal," Daryl mutters, his fingers absently rooting in a bag of chips they'd pilfered from the convenience store in Atlanta before hitting Famine.

Rick nods, pressing his lips together, and debates how much to say about it. "I know that woman," he says, casting his eyes towards Daryl, before looking back out at the illuminated back of Glenn's car. Daryl gives a questioning huff. "Michonne. I knew her. Or I've seen her before, I guess."

"Seen her, like for real? Or seen her like you seen the horsemen?"

Rick frowns, unsure what Daryl means by that, but decides to let it go. "I mean I've seen her in my visions," he says quietly, his frown deepening. "But not those two men. Something terrible must happen to that camp."

"Maybe we should send Ed there," Daryl says darkly, and it startles a laugh out of Rick.

"Maybe," he agrees with another nod. "I…want you to know, Daryl."

"Know what?"

Rick shakes his head. "I just…want you to know that how I am, how I feel… Never mind. I'm talkin' crazy."

"I don't like it when you say shit like that," Daryl murmured. "Makes me think you're gonna do somethin' stupid."

They crest another small hill, gravel kicking up under the wheels as they move. Rick lifts his eyes and sees the white-ish edges of the quarry walls in the distance, a sign informing them that they're less than five miles away from it. Had that refugee camp really been that close?

"I promised not to leave you again," Rick says, "but that means you have to promise you won't let them take you away from me, either."

"Rick." Daryl's knuckles are whitening on the steering wheel. "You can't tell the group about your…visions."

"You wanted to say delusions."

"You've called 'em that yourself."

Rick nods, frowning. He has. And he's never minded Daryl's jokes about his psychosis. They don't rub him the wrong way like when Shane and Lori or a stranger does it. Why is he so on edge now?

 _Pestilence_.

It must be him. He's poisoning Rick's mind, clouding his thoughts. He's turning Rick's head bitter and sour, coating his tongue with something that tastes like betrayal and madness. He's making Rick want to pick a fight with his closest companion at the end of the world.

He reaches out and lays a hand on Daryl's thigh. "You're right," he says quickly. He feels clarity break across his skull like an ice bath. Perhaps Death is giving him this brief moment of reprieve. Daryl looks at him, hearing the urgency, his eyes narrowed and his shoulders tense. Rick isn't looking at him. "We can't whistle to each other in public anymore. We can't tell each other secrets unless absolutely _no one else_ can hear them. Pestilence will use them to trick me."

"Rick," Daryl sighs, shaking his head.

"Please," Rick says, squeezing his hand on Daryl's thigh. "I don't… _feel_ like myself right now. I'm scared, Daryl, and I'm asking you to help me. Please."

Daryl presses his lips together but doesn't answer. So he intends to be silent – well, technically that is what Rick asked him to do. With a sigh Rick withdraws his hand and curls up in his seat, his head against the window again. Sleep threatens to pull him under like a wave and he fights against it with everything he has as the sun finally disappears below the horizon, and the open edges of the quarry spread like a huge mouth waiting to swallow them whole.


	22. Chapter 22

They split up the pilfered good when they return to the quarry. Carl embraces Rick tightly when he gets out of the Jeep and Rick presses his face into his hair, inhaling deeply. He's sweaty and stinks of the Earth and Rick makes a note to investigate the water at the bottom of the quarry to see if it moves enough that they can bathe in it. Washing clothes is one thing but it's also got to be their drinking water and they can't risk muddying it too much.

It's well into nightfall by the time everyone is settled and everything is put in its proper place. They light a small fire and gather around it, Rick between Daryl and Carl, Lori and Shane and Merle sitting on the boy's other side. Glenn and T-Dog sit on Daryl's other side, and then Andrea and Amy, and Dale and Ed and Carol and Sophia complete the circle. He doesn't see Jacqui and her family and frowns.

"Where are they?" he asks.

"Asleep already," Shane replies, rubbing his hand over his mouth. "They're thinking about movin' on. Can't say I blame 'em, this close to the city."

Glenn's head perks up. "We met another group on our way back," he supplies with a smile. "They have a whole refugee thing going. Maybe we could tell them about it and they could find their way there."

"Maybe," Shane says, while Lori looks up

"You found another group?"

Rick nods. "Met their leaders, or I guess they were. Three of 'em, said they welcome all comers." Shane nods and presses his lips together and he sees Andrea and Amy share a look. "I don't…know if they'll stay there long. The place they were in wasn't safe and walled like the quarry is."

T-Dog frowns and huffs an impatient-sounding noise. "You said it was a good spot," he says, sounding accusing. Like maybe he's afraid of Rick letting people go. Knowing what he knows now, he might think Rick has some ulterior motive for everything that he says or does, which simply isn't true. Grand destinies don't trifle with the details.

He sees a shadow move behind T-Dog and swallows hard. "I didn't want them to think that I was challenging their position," Rick says mildly. Beside him, he feels Daryl's knee press against his and looks to the man, whose eyes are intently on the fire. Daryl reaches out his hands and rubs them, trying to get them warm. "It was an open field, downhill on all sides and no place to hide the fire. I didn't see any cans lined up or cars blocking the way."

"Man, you shoulda said something," T-Dog says.

"Maybe," Rick says, looking down and scratching the back of his neck.

Merle grunts. "No sense tryin' ta help people too dumb to help themselves," he says loudly, pushing his chin into his hand and turning his head until his neck cracks. The shadow moves to behind Merle and Rick sees a pale hand touch his chest, then the side of his head. Rick looks away. "Should've invited them to join us. We need some fresh meat around here."

"Merle," Daryl says, hissing the name as he glares at his brother across the fire pit. "They know where we are," he adds with a huff. "If they wanna join us, they'll come."

After a moment of silence, Lori speaks up; "I'm glad we're finding other groups," she says quietly. She reaches out and grabs Carl's hand, holding it gently in her lap. "If there are other people, other survivors…maybe it means we stand a chance of making it through this."

Rick feels eyes on him but he doesn't want to look up, in case he sees the shadow touch another member of his pack. He knows what it means but it's a reality he can't face yet. He doesn't want to see any of his people die but it's an inevitability if they begin to wish for Death. They aren’t special in his protection like Daryl is.

He sighs and rubs a hand over his eyes. He's exhausted to the bone and wants nothing more than to curl up with Daryl in their tent like wolves in their den. Pestilence is going to try his damnedest to wear him down and Rick can't afford to be at anything less than a hundred percent.

"I'll take first watch," Glenn offers, sensing the change in mood. Dale nods and volunteers to join him and the two go to climb to the top of the RV and camp out. Lori stands and Rick stands with her.

"Lori," he says, reaching out to her and stopping when she turns to regard him. Her eyes are wide and he sees the tense muscles in her neck, the way her jaw clenches and she looks prepared to run. "Can I talk to you for a second?"

Lori's eyes flash to the side and down, in Shane's direction, before she gives him one tight nod and follows him out of the halo of campfire light. Rick brushes a hand across Daryl's shoulder as he leaves. They walk to the small rise overlooking the pool of water that sits like a black beast below them, slumbering and waiting. It's probably freezing cold, the water, but he feels a strange urge to walk into it until it rises up above his head.

He feels her shadow fall on his left and heaves a deep breath, turning to regard her. "Lori -."

"Rick," she cuts in, holding up a hand. "If you're going to tell me something like you fucked Daryl or something, I'd rather not hear it."

Rick frowns, momentarily too surprised to reply. "What? No," he says, shaking his head. "I mean, nothing like that happened. That's not what I wanted to talk about."

"Oh. What then?"

Rick blinks at her, before he licks his lips and gazes back out towards the water. But, no, he can't move past that. "Would it be so bad?" he asks her. "If Daryl and I were together?"

She shifts her weight, making an uncomfortable sound. "Thought that wasn't what you wanted to talk about," she mutters.

"You brought it up," Rick shoots back.

"Well, it's just…" Lori sighs and runs a hand through her hair, twisting it around her hand in a nervous gesture. Rick is sure she's never done that before, though, but without a piece of furniture to fiddle with he supposes she has to make to. "I don't know how I'm supposed to explain it to Carl."

"I'm sure Carl could figure it out," Rick replies, holding back the sarcasm as best he can. After all, there are a lot of things she's had to worry about explaining to Carl. This hardly seems like a big deal but she's making it one. Nothing even _happened_. "Fine. It doesn't matter. You're right, it's not what I wanted to talk about."

Lori nods, her gaze steady on him when Rick turns to look back at her.

"I found Famine," he says. Her eyes widen. "I killed him."

"I – you. _What_?" Lori gasps, her knuckles going white amidst the darkness of her hair. Her other hand rests just below her breasts, holding tightly to her shirt. "You _killed_ someone?"

"Yes," Rick replies. "I wanted you to know that."

" _Why_?"

Rick licks his lips again, sighing heavily. "Daryl doesn't want me to tell the rest of the group about me…about the facility I was in, about the things I think and see. And he's probably right. They'd hang me out to dry at best, just put me down like a sick dog at worst."

"I wouldn't do that," Lori says.

"But would you stop them? If they decided to drive me out?"

Lori's jaw clenches. "Rick, what do you want me to say?"

Of course, she could never say the words outright. That's okay though. Rick knows. She doesn't have to pretend around him even though she loves keeping up appearances. The glint of her new engagement and wedding ring shine in the weak glow of what firelight still touches them.

"I need your help," he finally says. "I know it's a lot to ask, but you _know_ me. Hell, we were married more'n ten years, we had a kid together. You're one of my closest friends and I love you as much as I ever have. Not…not in a way that would should worry Shane. You gotta know that. But I do love you, and I trust you, and I believe that you'll tell me what I should be told instead'a what you think I wanna hear."

Her voice is thick when she speaks again; "Of course," she whispers. She unclenches her hand from her hair and reaches for him, resting her fingertips lightly on his chest before drawing them away. "What do you need my help with?"

Rick closes his eyes and takes another deep breath. "Let's just…assume for a second that I'm right," he begins. "That I'm right about everything. About the horsemen, about having to kill them to stop the apocalypse. Let's just take all that for a given. Can you do that?" She nods, pressing her lips tightly together. "So, Famine's gone. I think Pestilence is next. I've been having dreams of him coming to me, and I think he has the most power to really hurt me without me knowing it."

"Okay," Lori whispers. "Okay, so…" She takes a deep breath. "Let's assume all of that, then. I'm saying I believe you, but I'll play along. Where do I come in?"

"I think I've already met Pestilence," Rick says. "He… _knows_ things. When I was in Atlanta on my own, I saw things and heard things that only I could know, but when confronted with things I didn't know, the horsemen – Famine, I think it was Famine – he couldn't trick me. Because I couldn't trick myself, you know?"

"Rick." Lori is already shaking her head. She takes a step back from him. "What do you mean?"

He didn't want to talk about it with her, but if she is to trust him, perhaps she needs to know. "When I was in Atlanta I got phone calls," he says. "Calls that weren't…possible to get. You called me. And Shane called me, and they said things to me. It wasn't you – I know it wasn't you, really, because the things you were saying couldn't really be you guys, and when I challenged Famine, he couldn't tell me things that you would know but I didn't."

There are tears in Lori's eyes. He can smell them, sharp and sweet like sour candy on his tongue. Or maybe that's poison.

"But Pestilence _knows_ things," he says. "I think he knows things because I've already met him. So I need your help. I need help figuring out who it could have been."

"How do you know he knows things?" Lori demands, her voice thick with tears.

Rick huffs a frustrated breath. "So, before we headed back, after defeating Famine, Daryl, Glenn, T-Dog and I were in a hotel room and Daryl and I were getting some sleep because we hadn't slept all night and Daryl needed to drive. And when we slept I had a dream. I had a dream about someone that I'd only ever seen in a vision. I've never had visions about people that the horsemen were _in_ , but he was there and he was trying to trick me and was using the face of this _kid_ that I'd never met to fool me. So he has to know _something_ about me."

"Well…" Lori swallows hard enough that Rick can hear it, looking down towards the frozen lake. Rick wonders what she's thinking about – if, like him, she is thinking it might just be easier to walk in and never walk out. Rick doesn't see the shadow behind her and wonders when he finally will, when her desire to die will outweigh her desire to keep fighting.

The silence stretches on and Rick can tell she's thinking so he tries not to press her. The group around the campfire is starting to disperse. Rick sees Merle and Daryl break off towards Daryl's tent, and Daryl looks tense and wary like a dog being confronted with a strange piece of meat. Merle isn't talking as loud as he normally does and that immediately makes Rick suspect that he's the subject of their conversation. Will Daryl come to bed angry again? Will he let Rick soothe and comfort him and press close against him as he so desperately wants to?

"I need to think," Lori finally says. Rick closes his eyes and nods and opens them again when he feels her touch his cheek. "I'm going to think about it," she says again with a slow, meaningful nod. "Really, I will. I'm going to try and help you, Rick."

"Really?" Rick asks, and hates how small and childish his voice is. Maybe she's right to treat him like a delicate child. He feels at once as old as time and as fresh as a hatchling. There are eggshells scattered all around him.

"Yes," she says with another nod. "Now get some sleep."

And with that she walks past him and away, towards where Shane and Carl are still waiting by the campfire. She takes Shane's hand and gives him a small smile and Shane wraps his arm around her shoulders as they head to the tent, Carl in tow. Carl turns and gives Rick a small wave that he returns, but he's not sure Carl can really see him. Then they climb into the tent and disappear from sight.

Rick sighs and sits down on the slight rise of the verge. He doesn't want to venture near Daryl and Merle while they're still talking, but soon his attention his caught by a loud clearing of someone's throat. Rick turns around and sees Merle standing a short distance away and when their eyes lock the man gives him a cocky, smirk-like grin.

"Coast is clear, nutterbutter," he says with a half-hearted salute. Rick gets to his feet and Merle doesn't turn or look like he's going to walk away. Rick strides right up to him and Merle meets his gaze steadily, jaw clenched and meaty arms crossed over his chest like he's gearing up to take a punch.

"You're poisoning him," Rick says darkly, not bothering with niceties. Merle's smirk widens. "I know what I am and so does he, and nothing you say to him or do to me is going to change that."

"I know," Merle replies. "I'm loud, not stupid. My lil brother's ass over elbows for you. Can't see why. Yer gonna get him killed."

"I ain't," Rick says, and his voice goes soft and pleading. After all, if Merle keeps going like this, he might change Daryl's mind anyway and Rick _cannot_ afford to lose him. Not after everything. "I made a deal. Daryl won't die. Not if I have anythin' to say about it."

"A deal," Merle repeats, unconvinced and unimpressed. "Unless it was with Death himself, I'm not convinced."

Rick grins. "It was," he replies brightly, and Merle blinks and his eyes rake Rick up and down, like he's not entirely sure Rick isn't just some weird hallucination caused by his own drug-induced delusions. Wouldn't that be a trick, if Rick was just some figment of someone else's imagination? That individual is seriously fucked up if that's the case.

Merle clenches his jaw and grinds it from side to side, before he nods. "You got a hold on 'im," he says, as though he's admitting a dreadful sin. "I even _smell_ one hair outta place on 'im, though, I'll hide your body so deep in the woods even if you come back walkin' you'll never find him. You get me, Officer Friendly?"

Rick nods, bristling at the idea that he would ever hurt Daryl, _or_ that his _man_ would ever be able to take him out on his own. Rick isn't going to die. Rick is going to _survive_ , until his mission is completed. That, he has to believe. That, he has to accept as fact.

Merle nods back at him and then turns and strides away towards the truck, whistling to himself softly. Rick sighs, feeling like a great weight has been set on his shoulders, and makes his way slowly towards Daryl's tent. He hesitates outside and clears his throat.

"Can I come in?" he asks softly.

"Unless you wanna sleep on the road," comes the reply, sounding irritated. Rick smiles to himself and ducks his head as he goes to his hands and knees and crawls inside. Daryl is a warm, welcoming patch of black in the dark heat of the tent, much more enticing than the frigid lake. Rick sighs as he settles himself on his side, facing Daryl, and Daryl rolls over onto his back to stare up at the ceiling of the tent.

"Good talk?" Daryl bites out.

Rick blinks. "With Lori or Merle?"

"You talked to Merle too?"

Rick sighs. "More like he demanded a moment of my time," he replies. His fingers itch out to touch Daryl and it is taking a substantial amount of willpower to keep his hands to himself. The feeling of Daryl's lips on his forehead is forever burned into his memory and his lungs feel empty and weak without the other man there, close to him. Even as tightly pressed as they are, he still feels like he's miles apart from his mate. "Gave me a good ol' classic big brother speech. The 'If you hurt him, I'll kill ya' kind."

Daryl snorts, but it's not a humored sound. "He'll have to wait in line," Daryl says, his voice muffled like he's biting on his cuticles. "Told ya already I'll put a fuckin' bolt in your eye if you ever step outta line."

"I won't," Rick says, urgent and low. "I promised. I won't leave again. I won't… _lie_ to you again. Daryl, I -."

 _Love you_.

Daryl hums. "I know. Me too."

"I feel like the more I say it, the less you believe me."

"You ain't never said it," Daryl says. Rick hears him roll over onto his side. In the darkness he can't see Daryl's eyes or his expression but he can imagine it well enough. He imagines he can see the shine of blue in Daryl's eyes and wishes that he could tell if this was real or not. If he were to reach out and draw Daryl to him and kiss his mouth and taste him, would he taste more of Pestilence's venom? When Daryl blinks, do his eyelids click like an insect's? Rick does his best to hear but can't.

"Do you want me to say it?"

"I want you to _mean_ it," Daryl replies. "Don't gotta say it."

"Maybe I want to say it."

"Maybe I don't wanna hear it."

"I don't want to scare you." Rick reaches out, then, unable to stop himself. His hand finds Daryl's bare arm and feels it tense and trembling under his touch. "But I do. Daryl, I -."

"Don't say it." Daryl's hand touches his cheek, then his mouth, stopping his words. It feels like they get caught somewhere behind his teeth with a pressure that knocks the breath out of him. "Don't. You always say it when you think I'm pissed, or scared. I won't believe it."

Rick licks his lips and he can taste Daryl on them where his fingers touched Rick's mouth. He pulls his hand away from Daryl's arm and takes his hand instead, curling their fingers together and pressing Daryl's knuckles to his lips in a gentle, quiet kiss. He hears Daryl breath out shakily.

"We're going to get through this," Rick promises. "When the horsemen are dead, it'll all be over. The world will heal. We'll be okay."

"I won't believe that, either, not 'til I see it," Daryl says, and Rick remembers the first time Daryl said he couldn't believe what his own eyes were telling him. He smiles.

"You'll see it," he whispers. Then he reaches out in the darkness and slides his fingers gently through the knotted mess of Daryl's hair. Daryl doesn't pull away when he pushes them closer together and he rests his forehead against Daryl's and closes his eyes. They hesitate like that, caught in stasis, and then Daryl closes the distance and their lips meet. It's a gentle, soft thing, but as passionate as any kiss Rick has had with Lori, more intimate than any love scene he's witnessed. Rick knows in that moment that he would set the whole world on fire if Daryl would kiss him like this every day.

When he pulls back, Daryl lets out a quiet, desperate sound, and Rick has no more power in him to resist that than he does anything else when it comes to this man. He kisses Daryl again, for longer this time. It's still relatively chaste but Rick feels like his entire soul lights up at the touch. They break apart a second time and Daryl's hand rests itself on Rick's shoulder, their fingers still intertwined.

They are silent, unreadable in the darkness, until Rick breathes out. "I feel like I've waited a thousand years to do that," he says, completely without irony. His soul feels old and safe like lovers nearing the end of their days together after a lifetime of happiness.

"Yeah," Daryl breathes, sounding awed. "I want to do it again."

Rick smiles and closes his eyes. His hand tightens in Daryl's hair. "Then, please, don't let me stop you," he says, laughter infecting his voice, and hears Daryl give another quiet huff before they're leaning in again. They fall asleep curled up close to each other, Daryl's forehead resting against Rick's beating heart, and Rick feels like he's at peace for the first time since he saw the world end.

 

 

 

In the morning Rick feels well rested and light, like he's walking on air. Daryl is already gone from the tent but Rick isn't worried. He had woken briefly when Daryl left, needing to relieve his bladder in the woods and going to check the snares. They'd kissed one more time, sweet and quick, and Rick's head feels warm and fuzzy with affection and love as he changes into a new set of clothes and makes his way towards the main gathering of the group outside.

Lori intercepts him, her eyes wide. "Rick!" she says, and tugs on his arm. Shane is standing near the RV, talking with Dale, who moves away as they approach. "I told Shane what you said to me last night and we came up with something."

Rick blinks, eyeing Shane and hating how wary he feels when looking towards his friend. Of course, he has no solid reason to suspect Shane, but he chose to share with Lori because of their kinship and because he feels like she has less to gain from his exile from the pack. Shane is the leader now with Rick his only obvious challenger. And he might be War.

 _He isn't_.

 _But he might be_.

"Hey, brother," Shane says, solemn. He claps a hand on Rick's shoulder. "How you feelin'?"

"Fine," Rick says, looking between the two of them. "So?"

"You said that…this man," Lori says, stumbling over the horseman's name. Rick gives her an encouraging nod. "You said that he knew things like the, ah, _visions_ you'd been having. Stuff like that." Rick nods again and she looks over at Shane, urging him to continue.

"Well," Shane says, scratching his nails through his hair and biting on his tongue, before he heaves a breath. "Look, brother, I'm not sayin' I _believe_ this shit, _but_ …" He holds up a hand as though about to pitch Rick the greatest idea of his life. It's the same energy he would have when thinking through a complicated case. There hadn't been anything major in King County for years, but every now and again there might be something like robbery or murder that would stump them for motive or means. Those puzzles had always been particularly satisfying to work out.

"If this guy knows your visions, well, seems pretty obvious, right?"

Rick blinks, and shakes his head.

"It has to be someone who knows what you say," Lori says with a nod. "Someone like…well, like Shane and me. _Or_ someone at the facility. Someone who would have known what you'd seen. In detail."

"Makes sense, right?" Shane adds, smiling in encouragement as Rick blinks, looking down at his feet, considering that. "I mean, you saw all kinds'a shrinks and therapists before that place, but in there you had to get down to the real grit, right? I assume that meant sharin' everything, even the dreams you had."

Rick frowns, biting his lower lip as he considered that. "But the facility was wiped out," he says, looking back up at the two of them. "Daryl and I saw that place go down. _Everyone_ died. Or turned."

"Are you _sure_?" Lori asks, resting a hand on his arm.

Rick thinks back to that day and night. He can remember it vividly, like it happened mere moments ago. After James had turned the entire place had gone to shit within moments. Far quicker than he'd expected.

Of course, where else might Pestilence sit except the place where it was destined to start? Where else would he be except to keep an eye on the vessel of Death, who upon awakening posed a threat to his very existence?

"Oh my God," Rick breathes. Because in truth, no, he hadn't seen _everyone_ die. In fact, once he and Daryl had hidden in Doctor Woodmore's office, he hadn't seen much of anything. Someone could have escaped, or controlled the horde in such a way that meant they were able to pass through.

But a single walker _had_ made it into their building, even without any reason to wander in and investigate. He and Daryl had been quiet, after all. They hadn't drawn attention to themselves, and the walker had come straight for Doctor Woodmore's office. What other reason could there be?

"We have to go back," Rick says, wide-eyed. "I have to see for myself."

"Rick," Lori says, sounding surprised. "Now, wait…" She looks nervous again, the excitement of her theory lost at Rick's enthusiastic acceptance. "Let's think about this. This is all theory, of course. Besides, if the man you claim is Pestilence was there, he's probably not there anymore, right?"

"I have to look, Lori," Rick insists. "I have to see."

He feels something bubbling in his chest, like excitement and terror combined. He can't see Death or sense him nearby, but the cold pit of certainty in his throat makes him think that Death is pleased with his assessment, and is encouraging him to continue on.

"I'll take Daryl with me," Rick says. "We'll go in and out quickly. Just to see."

"Rick, c'mon man," Shane says, shifting his weight. "We need you here."

"No you don't," Rick replies, shaking his head. "You all want me gone. That's no secret. I'm a murderer, Shane. Lori tell you I killed a guy in Atlanta?"

Shane's eyes widen and he takes a step back as though pushed. "What?"

"I killed a guy," Rick says, baring his teeth. "Hacked him to fuckin' _pieces_ with a machete. I'm gonna do it again if I find Pestilence, and then again with War. I'm going to _kill_ again, and the more desperate they become, the stronger I let them get, the worse it'll be for everyone here. Hell, there might be a herd wanderin' this way any _second._ I can't waste any _time_."

"Rick!"

Rick turns away, intent on finding Daryl before Shane and Lori can cause more a scene. Shane catches him though, and whirls him around, slamming him up against the side of the RV. Rick grabs his shoulders and shoves him away with a low snarl.

"Rick, stop it!" Shane demands. The others have started to notice their tussle now. Rick can feel eyes on him that don't belong to Shane or Lori. Shane takes a step forward and Rick doesn't even think about it – he reaches for his Python and pulls it out of its holster, raising it level with Shane's chest.

Shane's eyes widen and he freezes, taking a step back, and holds up his hands. "C'mon, brother," he says lowly, trapping his tongue between his teeth before letting it go. His eyes shift to the side, towards where the other members of the group have gathered. "Just calm down. Ain't no one here gonna hurt ya."

"I'm not a fucking _dog_ , Shane," Rick hisses. He doesn't lower his weapon but tightens his grip. His hand is starting to turn cold and he fights the urge to just gently squeeze the trigger. His gun is the most responsive lover he's ever had and is so quick to fire at his touch. In his hand it feels as powerful as Death's scythe.

_You could do it. Kill him. Even if he ain't War, he's as much trouble as._

"Rick."

It's Daryl's voice, cutting through the cold anger like a warm knife. Rick presses his lips together and straightens, lowering the muzzle of the weapon just a little. His hand is shaking now, the tension in him melting away. He looks to his side and sees Daryl there, Carl a small shadow behind him, tucked like a frightened child. Abruptly the cold leaves him altogether and he drops his arm, breathing out heavily.

"You wanna come kill Pestilence with me?" he asks, his gaze steady on Daryl's face.

Daryl presses his lips together. His crossbow is held loosely in his right hand, strung and loaded. In his other he's holding a cluster of dead rabbits and squirrels, the blood caked into their fur old and brown.

He looks at Shane and Lori, and then the rest of the group gathered at Rick's back, before he sets his eyes on Rick's again. "When do we leave?"

"Soon as we can," Rick says, holstering his weapon and sending a look at Shane as though daring him to protest. Shane lowers his hands and shakes his head, a low curse falling from his clenched teeth. Rick nods and the tension dispels slowly, like a lazily receding tide. It's better that Rick leave now, before too many people start asking questions.

"You're insane," Lori whispers, barely audible, and Rick smiles at her.

"Maybe," he says. "Yeah. Maybe."


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry again for the brevity of this chapter but I wanted to do the facility/Pestilence all in one scene, which will be the next one. Enjoy!

Rick goes to his and Daryl's tent to pack his bags again. He's almost out of relatively clean clothes but he notices that like an afterthought. His blood is burning and his head _hurts_ , a pounding just behind his eyes that feels like dehydration but has the heat of anger. "Do not damage the oil and the wine," he mutters, shoving another shirt in with the lump of clothes at the bottom before he closes the zip. What knives he has he tucks into the side pockets, and he has the extra box of ammo for his gun. He'll get the pistols from Glenn and T-Dog that he gave them, and pilfer anything else the group will let him have. He has the feeling that, from here on out, it's going to be a nasty fight. If Pestilence is there, he'll be ready for Rick.

The tent flap opens and Rick turns to see Daryl crouching just outside. He doesn't come in, just eyes Rick like he's an animal Daryl hasn't seen up close before and he's waiting to see if it's friendly or not. Rick licks his lips, his eyes raking Daryl up and down, and gives him a nod. "Hey."

"Hey," Daryl rasps back, going to his knees instead of the balls of his feet. "You feelin' okay?"

Rick hesitates, unsure how to answer that question. "Do I seem okay?"

Daryl pauses a moment, and then shakes his head. "I've seen all sorts, bein' on this Earth, and I can definitely say that you are pretty fuckin' far from okay. What the Hell happened back there?" Then, lower, he whispers, "What did Shane say?"

Rick turns back to his bag and, like an afterthought, unzips it again and stuffs a blanket inside. The thing bulges, inefficiently packed, but Rick can't find it in himself to try and fold the blanket into something a little more economical.

He takes a breath and lets it out, but the headache doesn't ebb. He feels like he can't _see_ , and so he looks back up and tries to focus on Daryl, on the color of his eyes and the sweep of his hair. He wants to touch the man but holds himself back, knuckles going white on his bag.

Last night he never got around to telling Daryl what he spoke to Lori about. Other things got in the way. He was _distracted_ , on edge. Is it Pestilence, turning his brain to little more than bees caught in a rainstorm?

"I talked to Lori last night," he says, and Daryl gives a nod. He knows this already. "I told her about what we did in Atlanta. About Famine. I told her that…that the things I was seeing, that Pestilence was making me see…it only makes sense that he knows things about me. Famine couldn't trick me like he can. So…so I told her. I asked her to help me. And she told Shane and they said that maybe Pestilence might be at the facility."

He looks up. Daryl's expression hasn't changed. He's expectant: he knows better than to share his thoughts halfway through Rick's rambling monologues.

"It makes sense," Rick says, huffing. "The things Pestilence knows, and that he sees – it has to be someone I've met before. Someone who knows about my visions enough to fake them. So I thought…even if he isn't there, the facility's a good place to start."

He makes an ugly sound, shoving at the bulging blanket in his bag, and sighs, shaking his head. "That's apparently as far as they were willing to humor me. They don't want me to leave. Doesn't make sense. If I leave, and you follow, that's half the undesirables gone right there."

Daryl hums in thought. "And you think actin' out like that's gonna help yer cause?" he asks, his accent thick. Rick looks at him, wide-eyed and lost. "Rick, listen to me." Daryl crawls into the tent, then, the shirt acting as a cover falling across his back, and he rests a hand on Rick's shoulder. "I believe ya, alright? Glenn and T-Dog might, too. You got people on your side here but these folks…they don't know you like I do. They haven't _seen_ what I've seen. They didn't feel Famine, they haven't been by ya since before the beginnin'. You gotta tread lightly with shit like this, and pointin' a gun at your best friend isn't gonna help people see things your way."

"Doesn't matter if they see things my way," Rick growls. "I'm _right_." Then, he breathes out, and lifts his hand to settle it across Daryl's. "I am…right, aren't I?"

Daryl doesn't answer.

"I haven't dreamt about the horsemen again," Rick says. "I haven't…been there. I haven't seen Famine gone. I don't know if I'm on the right track. I keep seeing…" He pauses, looking over Daryl's shoulder as though someone might appear there, listening in on them. He shifts to one side so that Daryl can come further into the tent and the flap falls completely. It's not soundproof by any means, Rick knows that, but it provides a sense of dull light and security that makes him feel more comfortable. "I keep seeing this shadow. At the campfire, at night. It goes to certain people in the group and…touches them." He winces, swallowing hard. "I think I'm seeing 'em die."

Daryl swallows. "Who?"

"First it was Amy," Rick says, and he lets go of Daryl's hand to touch his throat. "Here, then here." He touches the side of his head. "I think she's gonna die. And…I've seen it touch Ed. And Merle."

"Merle?" Daryl repeats hoarsely.

Rick nods. "I don't know if I'm changing the future," he says. "I don't know if I can save these people. But I can save the _world_ and that's…that's gotta mean somethin', right? You believe me. You said you believe me."

"I do," Daryl says, nodding once. His hand tightens on Rick's shoulder. "I believe ya. I trust ya. But the others…you gotta be more…"

"Sane?" Rick bites out, finishing Daryl's sentence for him. Daryl doesn't say anything in reply but makes a soft sound that sounds very final, like the closing of a coffin. "We have to go," Rick continues, lifting his eyes to Daryl's again. "If nothin' else, I know we gotta go back. You with me?"

"Always." And then Daryl's hand shifts to the back of Rick's head, fingers loosely tangling in his hair, and he kneels forward to rest their foreheads together. Rick closes his eyes and breathes out, his hand finding Daryl's shirt and fisting tightly. He hums out their tune, low, high, low, and hears Daryl huff a small breath of laughter.

"I don't know what I'd do if you weren't with me," Rick whispers.

"Don't think you ever gotta find out," Daryl replies, and Rick feels his lips brush Rick's forehead before he pulls away. "I'll get the extra guns from Glenn, grab what food they'll give me. We can hunt for the rest. Then we'll go."

"Thank you," Rick says, and then he hears Daryl leave. He keeps his eyes closed and braces his hands against the cold ground. His fingers itch to scratch at his wrists and his neck, the urge to draw blood strong in his head. Maybe if he offers a sacrifice, Death will come and give him guidance. He misses the horseman's presence and wishes Death would come to him.

After a while he can't delay any longer, and he emerges from the tent. Carl runs up to him, wide-eyed and scared with tears streaked across his face.

"You can't go again," he says, voice high and young. He's trembling, and shifting his weight like an erratic pup, fingers fidgeting nervously. Rick tries to ignore the sight of blood blooming on his side. He knows it's not real. It _can't_ be real. Carl is with him to the end – he'll kill any and everyone who tries to take his son away from him.

Rick falls to his knees and Carl leaps into his arms, clinging to him tightly as new sobs rack his small, thin body. "You can't leave again dad," he begs, thick with tears. "I hear mom and Shane talk sometimes. They'll leave soon as you're gone. You'll never find us."

"Hey, c'mon," Rick says, trying to be soothing, but that sounds exactly like something they would do. He pulls back and wipes at Carl's face gently with his thumbs. The cord around his neck holding Rick's old hat leaves a white line on his neck and he tugs at it, pulling it down somewhere lower on his son's chest. "You can trust your uncle Shane, okay?"

Carl sniffs, wiping at his nose and face with his forearm. He's so dirty. Rick's soul aches at seeing his son like this. How many times had he had to console a loved one of a criminal, or spoken to their children and told them it would be okay, the bad man was gone? Or I'm sorry, your daddy ain't comin' home. How many times, and why was it suddenly so hard to do it now?

One of Carl's eyes gets stuck with tears and he rubs at it. For a second Rick only sees the socket, before Carl blinks both eyes open and Rick sees the same bright blue he inherited from Rick. They're watery and big, his eyes, his cheeks red from crying.

"I won't be gone long," Rick says, still holding Carl's face with gentle hands. He can see the shadow of Lori hovering behind, in the shadow of the RV. She looks like she wants to run forward and wrench Carl away from him and hide him from sight. Rick thinks back to the night when he'd painted their bedroom walls in the same way he'd etched the horsemen's names into his cell at the facility, and before that in the holding cell of the prison when he'd been arrested. Shane had to repaint it, Lori told him that. How many times since his coma has Lori been hovering near them, tense and afraid that he might snap and hurt them at any given moment?

"What if _we're_ gone?" Carl asks quietly.

"I found you once," Rick says, and tries to put all the certainty of Death in his voice when Carl meets his eyes. "I found you once, and I'll find you again if that's what I need to do. You get me?"

At that, Carl manages a watery smile. "Dad…"

"I love you so much, Carl," Rick breathes, knowing that it might be the last time he gets to say it. If he has his way, he won't, but Carl is too young to understand the weight behind whistles, or the gentle brush of a hand through his hair. Maybe when he's an old man he'll look back on the things his father did and know how much Rick loved him, but for now he's just too young and the world is simply too big. "I love you, and I'll find you again if you guys leave."

"I know," Carl breathes, his voice hitching, shoulders trembling when Rick moves his hands there. Rick pulls him into another tight hug and they linger like that, before Rick sees Lori shift her weight near the RV and he sighs, pushing himself to his feet.

He leaves Carl behind and finds Daryl near Merle's truck, his expression tight. "Merle's comin' with us," he mutters, jerking his head towards the front of the car where Merle is sitting. Merle leans out of the driver side window and gives Rick a wide, off-kilted grin, waving one hand in a half-assed salute.

Rick nods, once, slowly. "Good," he says. Daryl blinks at him, like he expected Rick to protest. Rick doesn't like it, of course he doesn't, but; "A third set of eyes will be good for us. Help us…figure out what's real and what ain't."

Daryl blinks again, and nods, straightening up. "Glenn gave me the guns," he says. "They're in the back." His motorcycle, too, is safely roped into the bed of the truck. That's smart, Rick thinks – if one of them needs to make a quick getaway, if _Daryl_ needs to flee and leave the two of them behind, he'll be able to.

"So we ready?"

Daryl nods.

"Rick! Brother, hold up!"

Rick turns as Shane rushes towards him, breathing hard, and he feels Daryl move away to climb into the other side of the truck. Merle starts it, the engine rumbling to life with a load, clackering roar, and Rick winces at the sound and moves away from it to meet Shane a little way from the rest of the cars.

Shane hesitates, reaching for him and then stopping like he's afraid Rick will draw a weapon on him again. "Don't say I shouldn't go," Rick says, almost too quietly to be heard. Merle has started to reverse away from the rest of the cars and Rick turns his head, sees Daryl sitting in the passenger seat. The brothers are having a low conversation of their own. "I know you want me gone. It's better if I'm gone."

"Rick, please," Shane says, rubbing a hand over his face and then up through his hair, his other hand on his hip. Rick sees the glint of his pistol at his side and wonders if Shane feels the same power when he holds it, too, the red-hot of War when he lifts it and fires. He wonders if it feels like a sword in Shane's hand.

"Don't leave, brother," Shane says, reaching for him again. This time he touches Rick's shoulder and Rick fights the urge to flinch from him. "Listen…" Shane pulls him closer until Rick has no choice but to look him in the eye. The action throws him off balance, puts the weight in Shane's control. He ducks his head and tries to stare at Shane's boots. "Lori's pregnant, man. You can't leave."

 _That_ makes Rick lift his eyes, and they widen. He thinks to last night, when she'd clutched her shirt, but not her shirt, her _stomach._ Lori is pregnant. "I…" He shakes his head and stifles a low growl. "No. You can protect her, or teach her how to protect herself."

"Rick -."

"You don't _get it_ , Shane," Rick hisses, pulling away but Shane doesn't let him go so he can't stand more than an arm's length away from him. Or close enough to run him through with War's sword. Rick tries to push his hand off but Shane's hand tightens and it's on his injured shoulder and the pain makes Rick buckle, hissing at the sensation lancing sharply down his arm. "Damn it, man," Rick says, "how can you still not fucking _get it_?"

"You won't let me understand," Shane replies. "You can't explain yourself without sounding like a Goddamn lunatic, alright? I look at you and I don't even know you sometimes."

 _The feeling's mutual_.

"I have to go," Rick says. "I have to go. With Pestilence gone it's just War, Shane. It's just him, and then it'll all be over." He's fighting back tears, emotion thick in his throat. "It's just War, and then it's over. Why can't you let me _end_ this?"

_Because he doesn't want it to end. War is powerful here._

"How many more people have to die, Rick?" Shane asks. "How many more you gonna kill before it's done?"

"How many gonna die if I don't go?"

Shane's expression looks like Rick just broke his heart. It's the same expression Rick has seen before, but not on him. The sorrow and anger mixing together look foreign on his face. His mouth is pinched, his brow furrowed and heavy. He looks like he might put a bullet in Rick's leg just to keep him from leaving. Rick doesn't understand. Shane should want him gone – Rick's crazy, he's a danger. He's a galivanting crusader who will stop at nothing to end his mission. Surely it's safer if Rick isn't here.

"Just trust me," Rick says, finally lifting his eyes to meet Shane's. Shane's eyes are bright with tears he won't let himself shed and Rick's chest feels tight and tense with the urge to soothe. Since the start of their friendship he's seen Shane cry so few times he could count them on one hand. He reaches out and puts his hand on Shane's shoulder. "I'm not askin' you to believe me. Just to trust me. And if you can't, then you take this group and go find that refugee camp and stay safe."

"You said it wasn't safe there."

Rick forces himself to smile. "Maybe with you there, it will be."

That finally causes Shane to break and for the first tears to fall. Rick pulls him into a hug, their foreheads resting together before they find their place on each other's shoulders. Shane has always been physically larger than him, and after the sickness of his coma and the lack of nutrition and exercise in the facility, Rick is much smaller than him and Shane feels enormous, the kind of man that could conquer the world. Rick fists a hand in the back of his shirt and hugs him tightly, closing his eyes when he feels Shane embrace him just as fiercely.

He pulls back just enough to see Shane's eyes, and a small, sad smile crosses his face when he sees them. Shane will leave – he'll pack up and disappear before Daryl, Rick and Merle even make it to the next county. Rick believes that and knows that with every fiber of his being.

"I'll see you in the next life, brother," he says, and Shane squeezes his eyes tightly shut and presses his lips together, nodding. Then, he finally lets Rick go, and Rick turns and climbs into the back of Merle's truck before anything else can be said.

"Goddamn Hallmarkers, the lotta ya," Merle mutters, shifting the truck into drive and kicking up gravel as they start to drive away.

Daryl reaches over and punches Merle in the shoulder. "Shut the fuck up," he grits out, "just 'cause you wouldn't know family if it punched ya in the nose."

"If ya ain't fightin', y'ain't family," Merle replies with a grin, before he looks at Rick in the rear-view mirror. Rick puts his head in his hands and takes in slow, shaky breaths, trying to calm himself down and not let himself fracture apart at the seams. He needs to be _strong_ , and assured. Especially now that he's with a chaperone. "So, roadtrip, nutterbutter? Where we headed?"

"Back to the facility," Daryl supplied. "I'll tell ya where ta go."

Merle is quiet for a moment, before he lets out a soft hum. "Hey, nutterbutter," he says, uncharacteristically quiet and solemn, and Rick lifts his head to meet Merle's gaze in the mirror. "My lil bro told me a lil of what we're doin'. You think…ya really think you can stop this whole undead walkin' business?"

Rick nods, pressing his lips together tightly. "Yeah," he rasps. "Yes. I know I can."

Merle nods. "S'good enough f'r me," he says, and then he starts whistling to himself – it's the rooster's song from _Robin Hood_ and Rick feels his blood go cold.

Something dreadful and certain curls up in the back of Rick's head and nods to himself, humming the tune as they drive. He can't help thinking that he's made a terrible mistake. Beside him, he sees a hooded figure sitting, and he turns his head. The skull of Death grins back at him and for the first time Rick doesn't feel safe or relieved at seeing him.

"Get some sleep, Rick," Daryl suggests. That's always the answer. To sleep means to see, and to see means to know. The visions are the only things keeping them alive.

Rick blinks and looks down at Death's hand as it reaches for him to ease him under. "No," he says, shaking his head, but he's shivering so badly that he can't move away. Death's fingertips touch his forehead and Rick feels his eyelids grow heavy, the heat of anger in his skull finally cooling to something seductive and welcoming like sleep or amnesia.

 _Sleep, Rick_ , Death whispers to him, and Rick falls under with another quiet whimper of protest that goes unheard.

 


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it turns out I could have totally combined this chapter with the one before it in terms of length. Hope you guys like it!

In the facility, everything was pre-planned and organized down to the last detail. There were sections of time dedicated to recreation, and exercise, and group therapy, and sleeping. Rick liked order, he liked having to be at certain places at certain times.

The halls are clear and empty, not even a janitor or nurse or ward there to block the monotony. Rick can see, at the end of the hallway, a pair of closed doors. Behind him, he hears the low hisses and growls of walkers. He's running, but no matter how fast he runs, he can't reach the doors and the implied safety that lies beyond them.

His legs are burning from running and his lungs ache with every unsteady inhale. He doesn't dare turn back to look at the horde that he _knows_ is behind him, creeping their way closer. If he does look back, who will he even see? People he knows are dead, people who turned before his very eyes, or strangers? Would they even look like strangers, even if he had known them?

He can't reach the doors. He has no weapon. This must be a dream, but that doesn't mean he won't get eaten alive all the same. He has learned not to trust the separation of reality and dreamland anymore. If he can hurt himself, and if the horsemen can hurt him while he's asleep, then he most certainly can be turned by one of the walkers as well. Of that, he has no doubt.

 _Finally_ it feels like the doors are getting closer. If there is anything about himself he can trust, it's dogged determination. Drills and stake-outs have taught him the value of patience and head-down, eyes-forward progress. The snarls of the walkers behind him are getting closer as he nears the door and, with one final shove, he pushes himself through the doors and out into the light beyond.

Only the doors slam shut behind him, and it's nighttime when he flees the facility building. The recreation area separating the man building and Doctor Woodmore's office stretches beyond him like a canvas. The heat, despite it being nighttime, is sweltering.

He starts to sweat and keeps running, hearing the doors creak and groan behind him as the walkers pile against it, rabid for his flesh. His heart pounds in his head worse than drums on the morning after a night of drinking, piercing his skull more acutely than a hangover.

He stops at the door to Doctor Woodmore's building, breathing deeply, his hands on his knees.

"Rick."

It's Daryl's voice, but when Rick raises his eyes he knows that the man he's looking at is not Daryl. Even now, Pestilence can't trick him like he thinks he can. The eyes are too flat, they aren't nearly as beautiful as Daryl's are. The sweep of his hair is wrong. The smile is wrong.

"You're not real," he growls, turning away. Beyond Daryl's shoulder, the gates are wide open and the copse of trees on the other side of the road beckons him. He bolts for it just as the doors to the facility give way and the walkers come pouring out. He thinks, amidst the growls and hisses, he might hear utterances of his name. There's a bounty on his head – maybe the man who kills him gets to live again.

He runs into the trees, not caring for the way his bare feet snap twigs and he trips over rocks and clumps of leaves. He's uncoordinated, his muscles heavy with exhaustion. He has to keep moving. _He has to keep moving_.

He hears a whistle. It's not a whistle he's familiar with – it's high and sharp and long, and worms its way up his spine and into his head and he grits his teeth, head down against the trees as they move to embrace him and hold him still. Even nature is on Pestilence's side.

There's a clearing ahead and he runs for it, knowing what he's going to come to before he even gets there. He bursts into the open at the bottom of the field where the campfire sits. Rick is alone in the field, the campfire has turned to ashes in front of him. He feels a shadow at his back but his spine is too tight with fear to turn and look to see who is standing behind him. He's freezing cold so he hopes that it's Death, but honestly he can't be sure.

He hears a whistle that sounds like the rooster song and lifts his head, his throat dry and his voice cracking. "Daryl," he whispers. No response comes. By his side, Death's scythe lays abandoned as though it was dropped. He wants to reach for it but knows with dreadful certainly that as soon as he does, something terrible will happen.

He hears the shrill whinny of a horse and raises his head to the little rise of the hill, where the forest sprawls out beyond like a blanket of green, smothering the Earth. He sucks in a breath and takes a halting step back when he sees a white horse crest the hill, looking sickly and frail. It is still larger than Death's horse, though not as large as War's. Pestilence's needle-like staff flints in the ember light and Rick feels his blood go cold.

There's another sound, this horse roaring like an attacking bull, and Rick turns his head and sees War galloping towards him, sword raised up in preparation to strike him down. Rick dives to one side with a yell, scrambling for Death's scythe and lifting it up in preparation to defend himself. War's horse snorts, red eyes glowing as it dances to one side and around him, and runs up to join Pestilence on the hill.

So this is it. A united front. Rick grits his teeth and readies himself for their charge.

Pestilence's horse rears again, kicking wildly at the air, and steps to one side with a heavy snort and shake of its thin, white mane. Its eyes are black, as hollow as the void that was once in Famine's skull.

"Death was a _fool_ to send you here," Pestilence hisses. Next to him War laughs. There's a helmet on his skull now, golden and fringed with red, but Rick can see his smirking jaw underneath the lowered eye piece.

"I'm not afraid of you," Rick says, the words a soft lie. War laughs again, brandishing his sword, and his horse tosses its head and paws the ground, eager for another charge. Rick raises his scythe and feels the weight of the weapon in his hands. Strange, for such a large and unwieldy weapon, it sits in his hands as easily as his pistol. It thrums with power.

Pestilence's horse snorts heavily and Rick feels a warmth touch his shoulder. He takes a step back and looks to the side, trying to keep the other horsemen in his periphery, and sees the soft, pale muzzle of a third horse. It's smaller and translucent, glittering in the ember light. It has only a saddle. No reins. Rick smiles.

"Hello, troublemaker," he says, and lets go of the scythe with one hand to touch the horse's cheek. The horse snorts and pushes its muzzle against Rick's side, ears perked forward and ready. Waiting.

"Now it's a real fight," War says with glee, his horse still nervously prancing, waiting for the order to charge. Rick hears the low growl of dogs although he cannot see their shapeless, demonic shadows rolling around War's feet. He looks back at them and heaves a breath, before he takes another step back until he is at line with his horse's saddle. It's comfortable-looking and light, for Death must be swift and at one with his animal.

Rick mounts it with a grunt, pulling the scythe up until it's in both hands again. His horse raises its head in readiness and War lets out a whoop of victory. Rick looks down at his hands. They're trembling. He hopes the animal beneath him can't feel his nervousness, as he finds the silver stirrups and tightens his thighs around the animal's shoulders.

He looks up and tries to feel Death's power inside of him. It's a heavy, cold thing, like being pulled down into the depths of the ocean with cement tied to your ankles. Certain, chilling, _real_. A community can exist without war, and without famine, and without disease and conquest, but everyone must die.

Rick raises his eyes. Even horsemen.

"I killed Famine," he says, and Pestilence bares his sharp teeth. His eyes click when they blink and he lets out a little hiss. "And I'll kill both of you, too."

He digs his heels into his horse's flanks and the animal lets out a quiet nicker, head raised proudly as it moves. War's fingers clench tightly on his animal's reins as the horse lets out another shrill cry, front feet pounding against the ground. Pestilence's horse is similarly antsy, though Rick can't tell if it's eager or afraid. Both of them seem reluctant to give the higher ground.

"I'm coming for you," Rick says, and points the scythe towards Pestilence. The horseman hisses at him again and digs his heels in and his horse rears, then bucks, head tossing from side to side. Pestilence's horse looks plain and frail next to War's and compared with the slow, even strides Death's horse is making, it looks panicked. Rick can _feel_ the fear, and taste it in the air. It tastes like poison.

"You're a fool," Pestilence says again, baring his teeth. "Famine was weak, but I have never been stronger. I will _end_ you."

"Awfully confident," Rick replies. He sits back in the saddle and his horse slows to a stop at the bottom of the hill. "I'm right here. Come and get me."

Pestilence grins and War lets out another bellowing laugh.

 

 

 

Rick jerks away with a yelp, sitting bolt upright in the back of the truck. Daryl turns to look at him, that same deep blue telling Rick that he is, definitely, in the land of the living and the land of reality. Merle is still whistling the rooster song and he sighs, closing his eyes and rubbing a hand through his hair.

"You weren't out for long," Daryl notes, his voice cutting quietly through Merle's singing.

"Famine is dead," Rick says without preamble, and when he lifts his head he sees Daryl's lips thin out and the man gives him a single, tight nod. "We're going to be walking right into a fight."

"What did you see?" Daryl asks.

Rick's eyes flash to the back of Merle's head, unsure how much he should be sharing with the man. He is Daryl's brother, and as trustworthy as he can be, Rick supposes, but he's still hesitant to go into too much detail about the things he sees or the things he knows. Merle doesn't know the whistle, the one that is just for him and Daryl, and Rick feels like, just as that whistle must solely belong to them, there are some things that only they must know as well.

"More of the same," he finally answers with a sigh, scratching at the back of his neck. His hands hurt, and when he looks down he sees the tender outlines of new calluses forming. He hadn't held his gun or used his hands for any hard labor in months, and as a result they have grown tender. He hopes they will harden soon, and become just as capable as the horseman who chose him to be his vessel in the new world.

Abruptly, Rick feels the truck slow down. "Motherfucker," Merle mutters. Rick lifts his head and Daryl turns around and lets out a soft curse of his own.

The road is blocked, cars overturned and walkers ambling among them in disorganized lines. A few have already been drawn by the sound of the truck and growl, shuffling in their direction. Rick's hands clench tightly and he grits his teeth.

 _You're a fool_. Maybe he is.

"Is there a clear way?" he asks Merle, who can better see the angles of the cars and the traffic.

Merle grunts. "Maybe on the shoulder but no tellin' when that'll end."

"We gotta keep moving," Rick says, unable to hide the anxiety in his voice.

"Turn back, take the exit we just passed," Daryl says, reaching out to Merle. "I know another road we can take."

"You got it, lil bro," Merle says, altogether too cheerily, and throws the truck into reverse before he speeds backwards. Rick moves to one side so that he can see better and, sure enough, there's a road branching off to the right a few yards back. Merle turns onto it and the truck gives a hearty roar as they start to speed down it. There are walkers lining the roads here as well. A few of them get caught on the truck's bumper and hood, splattering across it and the windshield in varying shades of black and red.

Rick turns around and looks behind the truck. Around Daryl's motorcycle and their packed food and weapons and bedding, he sees the walkers group together and herd after them. He swallows thickly. "We're being corralled," he murmurs.

Daryl hums. "We can handle it," he says, and Rick isn't sure if he's speaking from certainty or just trying to sound confident to assure Rick. Still, it works, and Rick even manages a smile. His body aches as though the running in his dream was real.

Rick looks up when the truck slows again. "What's happening?" he asks, leaning between the brothers to stare out the front.

Merle narrows his eyes and lets out a curious hum. "You guys seein' that?" he asks, and gestures to the road. Rick squints, unable to see much through the shine of the sun through the windshield, but there's a definite black shape, sprawling across the road like tar. "What is that?"

Daryl tenses up and reaches for Merle again, fisting a hand tight in his brother's sleeve. "Merle, drive," he bites out. "Don't slow the car. _Drive_."

Merle obeys and Rick's eyes widen when he sees what exactly is making up the black mass on the road. When the truck starts juddering and bumping over the mass, he hears the sickening crunch and splat of small bodies being crushed under the weight.

"Rats," he whispers. "Rats. Pestilence sent rats."

"If they get into the car, we're fucked," Daryl says tightly. "They c'n rip out the wiring, stall the engine – God _damn_ it Merle _drive_."

"I'm going as fast as I can," Merle replies with a yell, shoving Daryl's hand off his sleeve. Rick hears the engine revving and the truck lurches forward as best it can, and Rick winces at each squelch and shriek of the dying rats, but it's not enough. There's hundreds of them, maybe thousands, and slowly but surely they're going to overwhelm the truck.

"We need to get ready," Rick says, reaching into his bag and pulling out his extra pistols. Daryl already has his crossbow up and Rick hands the two of them knives and their other bladed weapons. They can't afford to lose ground with the walkers behind them.

He hears a heavy _thud_ and yells. The windshield is cracked and Rick sees Merle flick on the windshield wipers, shoving the bloody, dead carcass of a raven onto the road to be overtaken by the rats. Pestilence's horde will eat well tonight, one way or another.

The truck sputters and hisses, slowing to a final stop, and the rats scatter away, their job finished. With a heavy string of curses, Merle slams his meaty hand against the steering wheel, before the three of them all pile out. Rick throws Daryl his bag and they grab what they can from the back of the truck but they have to move.

"This way!" Daryl yells, and Merle and Rick flee behind him and into the trees. A walker lunges at them from behind a tree and Rick fells it with a single blow from his machete. He yanks the blade out from the thing's skull and hurries to run after the brothers. His muscles are burning and it's hard to breathe in the heat. The sense of déjà vu is blistering on his skin and even though there's nothing he can do about it, it's most definitely a trap.

 

 

They run to the facility, hardly sparing a moment except to fell any walker that roams across their path. Rick doesn't think he's ever been so relieved to see the iron gates. They're splayed wide open like an invitation and the three of them hustle in, out of breath and sweating hard as the sun reaches its peak above them.

Once inside, the air is eerily quiet and Rick doesn't see a single other living thing. It feels…wrong. He keeps his pistol ready, looking around as though expecting a herd of walkers to jump out at them from behind any building. But it's quiet, and still. It's almost peaceful, like an empty church or a silent classroom.

Rick's skin prickles and Daryl looks over at him and gives him a nod. Rick nods back and presses his lips together.

"Well, this is…" Merle huffs, hefting his blade up onto his shoulder, and lets out a low whistle. "This is where you was workin', huh lil bro?"

"Be quiet, Merle," Daryl hisses, giving him a sharp glare.

Rick whirls around when he hears a door opening. It's the door to the main facility and he raises his gun, ready to fire at whatever Hell comes pouring out of it. The area beyond is dark and Rick sees movement, his hand tightening on his gun as he raises it and the shape comes shuffling out.

It's a walker, Rick can see that immediately, but it's not hissing or growling like the rest of them normally do. In fact, it's almost eerily quiet. Rick's eyes widen when the walker moves out into the light and Rick can see his face – or, at least, what's left of it.

"Oh my God," Daryl whispers, and Rick feels him at his shoulder, Merle taking Daryl's other side.

"Oh, boys! Glad you could make it."

Rick turns around, trusting Daryl or Merle to keep an eye on the walker as it shuffles to a stop just outside Doctor Woodmore's building. He's not sure what he expects to see – maybe the white horse, its rider sitting tall and strong, ready to run them down. Maybe the doctor from his dreams.

One thing he's certain of, whoever is standing before him, whatever he's seeing, it is definitely Pestilence. His stomach turns with nausea as soon as he looks at the wretched thing. The walker's disease has taken over the man's face, turning it into a black and wasted-looking thing. There's rabies-like foam at the corners of the man's mouth and blood down his lab coat, mixing with the black goo. The man was once heavy and tall, and Rick's eyes narrow as he smiles at them, his hand twitching and tapping six times against his thigh.

He sucks in a breath when he realizes who, exactly, he's looking at. "Doctor Woodmore," he whispers, and hears Daryl turn around.

The man smiles more widely at him, face splitting in two. "Well, Rick, I'm flattered. I know I don't look my best, but it's nice to see that you still recognize me." He steps forward into the sunlight. The letter opener that Daryl drove into his skull is still sticking out and Rick knows that if he turned, he'd see the caved-in mess that Daryl's shoe left behind.

 _Of course_ , he thinks. _Only a horseman can kill another horseman._

The walker behind him hisses and Doctor Woodmore snaps his fingers in quick succession, six times, and the hissing stops. "Now, James, behave yourself," he says, and Rick turns to see that the walker is, indeed, James. His heart twists and he feels something very close to sadness bubbling up in his throat. Poor, sweet James. Is he still suffering? Does he know what he's doing? As the first of his kind, is he more aware?

"Rick, Daryl…" Doctor Woodmore blinks, pale eyes landing on Merle. "I'm sorry. I don't know you. You're…unexpected."

"Don't say anything," Daryl whispers before Merle can speak.

Behind Doctor Woodmore, Rick sees the shadow of his white horse cast against the building. It's gone in a flash, as quick as a blink or a heartbeat, but Rick _knows_ he saw it. Doctor Woodmore smiles at him again. Gone is the genteel, benevolent air of the man he had spoken with so often and about so much. Of course, this is how Pestilence knows so much about him, and what he sees, and what he knows. He has _always_ known. He's been watching Rick, guiding him, trying to _cure_ him.

"If you'd succeeded, I wouldn't be here," Rick says, taking a step forward and raising his pistol to point at Pestilence's smiling face. From this far away it's not a guaranteed headshot but Rick will take his chances. "You tried to make me think it was all in my head, you son of a bitch."

Doctor Woodmore chuckles. "You were making such _progress_ , Rick," he says, and spreads his hands out as though he's the kindly father welcoming home his prodigal son. Rick takes another step forward and bares his teeth, fighting the urge to snarl at the man. He feels anger, burning hot in his blood, betrayal at the new knowledge that if he had been a little less sure, if Death had been a little less present, he might not be standing here. He wouldn't have Daryl, his family wouldn't be safe and alive. They might all have _died_ , slaughtered at the hands of Pestilence and right under the damned man's smiling mouth.

"You're outnumbered, Woodmore," Daryl says, and Rick sees the point of his crossbow similarly raised. He hopes Merle is keeping an eye on James at their backs. James has been silent, but Rick can feel him edging closing, can feel the tension mounting like a slowly tightening elastic band. "We're gonna put you down."

Pestilence laughs. "Outnumbered?" he asks, and then raises his hand and snaps his fingers again. Abruptly Rick flinches back as a walker appears before him, a half-hearted lunge and his reflexes the only thing saving his outstretched arm. He pulls his arm back and retreats to Daryl's side.

There are hundreds of walkers, abruptly surrounding them. Rick blinks and shakes his head. It _can't_ be real. It isn't real. They would have heard them, or _smelled_ them, or Death would have told him that they were around. How could they have walked into the middle of a Goddamn horde and not known the Hell that surrounded them?

"It's not real," he whispers to Daryl, who is looking between the walkers surrounding them like a nervous animal. Merle's back hits Rick's and Rick turns his head to catch the man's eyes. He sees in them the same certainty that Rick himself has come to wear like a cloak, and abruptly accepts the same truth.

This is Pestilence's realm now. They can't trust what they see. "It's not real," he says again, but doesn't dare strike at the first walker. They're around them in a tight circle, hundreds of them as far as Rick can tell, but through them all he can see Doctor Woodmore still smiling.

"I hope you brought enough ammo, boys!" Woodmore says with a happy wave. Rick growls and tightens his fist around his gun, readying himself for the fight. "James, take care of this rabble."

James lets out a soft, whimpering snarl, and Rick feels the cold in his head spread out down to his arm. This is _it_. They have to make it to Pestilence. He _has_ to kill him.

"I told you you were a fool, Rick Grimes," Pestilence says. "You'll never reach me."

And then he turns and walks back into the building, and the walkers let up a snarl of anticipation. Just as the door closes, the first walker lunges for them, and Rick raises his gun and fires.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to be gone tomorrow night and I hate ending on cliffhanger so y'all are getting this chapter early! Enjoy!  
> Warning for very intense fuckery on Pestilence's part.

The shot fells one walker, its hissing abruptly going silent as it slides to the ground amidst its brothers. Rick lets out a low curse and dodges the lunge of another, bringing his machete down in a wide arc and slicing through its head. He feels like he can't see – all there is to see are black, shapeless masses of the dead and then, among them, Daryl and Merle shining like white lights, their souls illuminating their vessels in Rick's eyes.

He feels incredibly cold despite the high sun and the warm air. His arm hardly feels like a part of him as he slashes through another walker. A bolt flies past his head and lands between the eyes of yet another and then Rick hears Daryl curse, shouldering his crossbow in favor of closer-ranged weapons. In this tight mass, there's no time to reload, even for Daryl.

"We need to get outta here!" Merle yells, and Rick can hear in him the dreadful certainty of what they're facing. He thinks of the shadow at Merle's back, how it had touched him and marked him for death. Perhaps Rick is a harbinger now, not only there to guide people into the next life but to lead them like sheep to slaughter. Daryl would never forgive him if Merle died because of him.

The path clears just for a second and he sees the doors through which Doctor Woodmore had disappeared, and he bares his teeth in an unearthly snarl. "We have to get inside," he says to Daryl, who nods, his lips a tight line. The walkers are grabbing at his arms, tearing his flesh with their nails. Their sickness will get inside of him, he knows this. Soon he will get feverish, soon everything will feel chilled. He won't be able to fight. Then he won't be able to walk. Then stand.

He _has_ to get to Pestilence. If nothing else, he is the strongest horseman right now. Death has been robbed of his power, mocked with every walker Rick sees. War, too, is strong but not nearly at his height. The skirmishes among men are fickle and instinctive right now. There's little premeditation, but soon there will grow armies, and battlefields, and grounds littered with not just dead, but undead as well. Rick believes that the world might survive with War at its helm, but not Pestilence. He _has_ to get to Pestilence.

"On me!" he yells, brandishing his machete and bringing it down into the skull of another walker. Daryl's heat is at his shoulder, and he hears Merle's grunts of effort as he fights on Rick's other side. "This way, come on!"

"Merle, let's go," Daryl growls, and Rick reaches out to grab onto Daryl's leather vest and hauls him behind Rick. The man stumbles and Rick kicks at another walker as it lunges at them, sending it to the floor. These walkers are not like the others. They're smarter, and faster, or at least more organized. Rick can't fight the feeling that, even as they win each hard-fought inch towards the door, they're being taunted and teased.

Merle lets out a hearty roar, pulling out his gun and shooting wildly into the mass of walkers. This close there's no missing, of course, but not every shot is a headshot. It hardly matters. Rick lets go of Daryl and grabs his pistol, firing at the ones directly in front of him. There's too many, and they don't have enough ammo.

The mass breaks and Rick bolts for the door, breathing hard and shoving every walker that lunges at him to one side. He breaches the steps and turns around, his back to the door, to see Merle and Daryl still firmly stung in the throng.

He fires his gun again, killing a walker that was almost at Merle's throat. Daryl reaches the steps mere moments later and Rick keeps firing.

Daryl shoves him towards the door, his crossbow once again ready. "Go!" he yells. "Go, end this! Merle and I will be fine!"

"What?" Rick demands, as Daryl lifts his crossbow and slays a half-made walker crawling towards their feet. The walkers seem much more intent on Merle, with the lower ground and with less of the advantage. Rick can't leave Daryl, if he leaves Daryl, he won't be able to protect him and he might _die_.

Daryl huffs a breath and shoots another arrow. His arms are bloody and there's black blood on his face and slick in his hair. "Rick, _go_ ," he demands, his eyes stormy and dark. He puts his shoulder between Rick and the walkers and leans backwards so that Rick is forced to lean against the door and it starts to creak open. "The sooner you end this…"

"Daryl, I can't _leave_ you -."

"Just fucking _go_!" Daryl hisses, shoving Rick bodily against the door and Rick stumbles inside. The door slams behind him as though someone yanked it closed and Rick flings himself against it, yanking at the handle and beating his gun against the door.

"Daryl!" he yells, panic setting in harshly behind his eyes. He imagines his is what a rabbit stuck in a snare feels like before it chokes to death. He slams his shoulder against the door but it doesn't give, as if there's a great weight against it. It should at least _move_ , just a little. Even Daryl wouldn't be able to keep the door completely sealed. " _Daryl!_ "

Rick hears a laugh. It sounds like a child, a young one, and the hairs on his nape start to slowly rise. He breathes out, resting his forehead against the cool door. His hands are trembling so badly that his gun rattles against the metal of the door.

Then, he turns. The halls look the same as he always remembered them, except now they're gross with blood and black goo from the massacre that took place. The one _he started_. He sucks in a breath and looks down at his arms, his shredded clothes. The walkers had tried to rip his very skin off him, but don't they know that to render him down to bare bone means to make him even more powerful?

He hears the laugh again and lifts his eyes as he sees a child run across the hallway, between the corridor leading to the recreation room and the area that leads down to the janitor's ward and the kitchens. The silhouette of the child is unmistakable, even without the askew Sherriff's hat Rick would know who Pestilence is trying to make him see.

"Your tricks won't work on me," he growls, tightening his grip on his gun. He blinks and sucks in another deep breath. Without Daryl and Merle there it will be much harder for him to tell what is real, and what's just in his head. Would it matter?

He walks slowly down the corridor, expecting an ambush at any second. At this point it wouldn't surprise him to suddenly walk into another throng of walkers. Pestilence must not have expected him to separate from his pack – and truthfully, Rick would never do such a thing. Pestilence knows many of his darkest secrets. He knows how Rick thinks, what Rick values, the things that Rick would never do.

He hears another sound. It's moaning, but not that of the dead. His fingers twitch and he cocks his head to one side, turning towards a closed door. There's a bloody handprint smeared across the glass window so he can't look inside, but the lights are one.

The moan comes again, higher-pitched this time, and Rick reaches out and flings the door open, his gun raised. He lowers it when he sees what, exactly, is inside. It's Shane and Lori, tightly intertwined on one of the long tables in the room. Lori's eyes are closed, her head thrown back in a familiar expression of rapture.

Shane looks up and grins at him.

Rick shakes his head and sighs, moving away from the door. "You're a shitty therapist," he says to the empty air. The sound of Shane and Lori's moans fades away and the light in the room abruptly snaps off. Then, Rick hears a scream.

He darts down the hallway and kicks open another door. The room is empty, and Rick hears another cry.

"Dad! _Dad, help!_ "

Rick knows it's not real. It can't be real, because Carl isn't _here_. Unless…

Unless Shane moved them all. Maybe Carl got kidnapped. Maybe he _is_ here. Rick winces when he hears the voice of his son give another sharp scream, and then comes the sound of walkers closing in on their kill. Rick's blood turns icy and he runs towards the recreation room, where the screams and growls at coming from. He slams his shoulder against the door but it doesn't give, as though something is blocking it. Rick slams his hand against the door and lets out a frustrated sound.

He runs a bloody hand through his hair and turns away from the sound of his son's screams. He has to find _Pestilence_. He has to…he has to…

"Rick!"

It's Daryl's voice and Rick feels his knees weaken with relief. Daryl rounds the corner, wild-eyed and frantic, and slows when he sees Rick, his back to the door, half-collapsed. "Rick," Daryl says again, coming over to him, and Rick closes his eyes and falls to his knees as Daryl runs to him and skids to his knees as well, catching Rick before he can collapse completely.

"I'm here," Daryl says. He's breathing hard and reeks of death, his face and arms soaked in walker blood. There are no scratches on his arms, no bites that Rick can see. He's safe. Rick's hands land in a shaky touch on Daryl's body and he clings tightly, choking on a sob. Daryl's hand threads through Rick's hair and he holds him tightly. "It's okay. I'm here. I'm here."

His voice is low and soothing and calm and Rick chokes on another breath, lifting his eyes to look at Daryl's face. He swallows hard, looking down, and then back up when Daryl leans their foreheads together. "You alright?" Daryl asks, and Rick nods, swallowing hard again.

Daryl smiles. "We gotta go."

Rick blinks and lets Daryl haul him to his feet. "Where's Merle?" he asks, wiping his face with one dirty forearm. Daryl looks at him, his face carefully impassive, and Rick frowns and asks again; "Daryl, where's Merle?"

"He." Daryl coughs, looking away. "He didn't make it."

Rick licks his lips, his hand still tightly fisted in Daryl's clothes. "Daryl," Rick says, and Daryl turns back to look at him. There are no tears. The tightness of his mouth is off. Rick blinks and shakes his head, cocking it to one side. "Whistle for me."

Daryl takes a step back, scoffing, and Rick lets his hand fall, numbly. It clenches and Rick tightens his grip on his gun. "Whaddya playin' at, Rick?" he asks, shifting his weight anxiously. Rick can hear the groan of walkers behind him, closing in on their position. "We gotta _go_. Come on!"

"No," Rick says, jerking his hand away when Daryl reaches for him again, and Daryl growls out another frustrated noise. "Whistle. _Our_ whistle. C'mon." Daryl scoffs again, shaking his head, and nervously taps his fingers against his leg. Six times. Rick realizes, abruptly, that Daryl doesn't have his crossbow.

He could have lost it in the fray.

 _No_.

"Whistle," Rick growls, raising his gun and holding it at the level of Daryl's eyes. Everything in him screams against the act but his gut is hard and tense, his arm is freezing cold. Death would never let him kill his beloved friend and disciple wrongly. Death wouldn't let him. Pestilence is tricking him. _Again_.

Daryl licks his lips, his eyes wide on the gun. "You gonna shoot me?" Daryl whispers, his voice perfectly young, afraid, _tender_. "Rick…" He reaches forward and touches Rick's wrist and Rick bites his lower lip so hard he can taste blood.

His head _hurts_. When he looks at Daryl he doesn't see the shine of him. He sees something ugly on his skin, yellowy just below. He can hear the shrill whinny of a horse somewhere in the halls. " _Whistle_ ," Rick says, "or I'll put you down."

"You're gonna kill me," Daryl whispers, taking a step back. "Fuck, Rick, you _know_ me!"

Rick closes his eyes and looks away, squeezing the trigger. His gun's shot echoes deafeningly in the quiet space and the growls of the walkers go abruptly silent. Rick sucks in a harsh breath and opens his eyes, looking down at the body he just planted a bullet in.

It still looks like Daryl, blue eyes wide and staring in disbelieve at Rick. Rick drops his gun, the weapon falling to the floor with a clatter, and falls to his knees by Daryl's side. "No," he says, petting Daryl's hair back. There's a single line of blood from the hole in his head and Rick grabs his face with both hands, lifting up the limp body and shaking it. "It's not him!" he yells at the corpse. "Show yourself, you fucking _coward!_ "

_It wasn't him._

_It can't have -._

_No._

_Daryl!_

Rick feels tears welling up in his eyes, hot and burning as they run down his face and drop onto Daryl's cheeks. He puts his forehead against the man's and sucks in a breath, his shoulders heaving with unsteady sobs as he cries. "It's not real," he says, petting through Daryl's hair.

_What happens when I can't see you?_

_What if Daryl had been whistling the whole time?_

"Oh, God…" Rick lets him go, falling back against the wall, and shudders through another broken sob. His soul feels like it's been torn apart. His chest has been ripped open and it feels like thousands of walkers are ripping his chest and lungs apart atom by careless atom. He can't breathe, he can't _see_. His hands are shaking and Daryl's blue eyes pierce him, accusing and so _wide_ open. "No, no, _no!_ "

" _Rick_!"

Rick jerks to one side, flinching when he hears Daryl's voice. He covers his ears and shuts his eyes tightly. "No, no," he screams. "I can't. I can't -. Just _kill_ me!"

"Rick!"

There's a hand on his face that isn't his own and it's gentle and warm. Rick closes his eyes even more tightly shut and shakes like a newborn lamb under the touch. His breathing is unsteady and if his eyes were open, his vision would be clouded around the edges from lack of air. He feels dizzy and _insane_.

"Just kill me," he begs, shaking his head again.

The touch fades away and Rick sucks in a breath, opening his eyes. The corpse is still staring at him, but the eyes aren't that familiar, gorgeous blue anymore. They're whited out with a thin ghost of blue still left behind. The hair is black and greasy, not with blood or goo but naturally that way. The mouth is slack, brown with dried blood. It's James.

Rick shoves himself away from the body and whines. A shadow falls across James' body and Rick looks up into the familiar void of Death's eye sockets. He feels weak, but now it's with relief. His broken chest is slowly mending itself back together, his mind has ceased its frantic gallop and has slowed, sides heaving, steaming with sweat.

"Am I dead?" he asks, as Death holds out his hand and Rick touches his bony fingers.

Death chuckles. _No_ , he replies. _But you wish you were_.

"I did," Rick says, and looks at James' body as he gets pulled to his feet. He bends down and picks up his gun. "I thought…"

 _I know what you thought_.

"It wasn't real." Relief washes through Rick like a warm current, like electricity. Rick closes his eyes and heaves in a shuddering, heavy breath. The weight of loss hangs over him and he knows he will never be able to erase the image of Daryl's lifeless body in his arms away from his mind, but it's being replaced with knowledge and hate.

How _dare_ Pestilence try and use Death's gift to him against him.

 _There is still work to be done here_ , Death says.

"Wait," Rick says as Death starts to fade away. The skull cocks to one side and Rick rolls his shoulders and tilts his head far enough that it cracks, before he straightens up. He holds out a hand. "Give me your scythe."

Death doesn't move, as though Rick is merely looking at a statue of him. Rick presses his lips together and forces his hand not to shake. Death looks down at the corpse of James, then back up at Rick. _It is not time for that, yet,_ Death finally says.

"Yet?" Rick asks.

 _Soon_ , Death replies with a nod. He steps forward and takes Rick's head in his bony, chilled hands, and Rick closes his eyes when he feels the cold bone of the skull's teeth rest briefly against his forehead. For others, Rick uses it as a reassuring blessing to guide them into the next life, and this feels like much of the same.

Then Death is gone, and Rick stifles a low growl and grabs a tight hold of his weapon. Without Death's scythe, this is the next best thing. He turns to find the door he had been trying to open before standing wide open, a dark void lying just beyond. Rick narrows his eyes and, with one last look to James, steps into it.

He has never been afraid of the dark. The doors close behind him and Rick feels utterly blind, but he is not afraid.

"You're a coward," he hisses. He knows the layout of the recreation room by heart and navigates even the askew tables and fallen stools and benches easily. He hears a horse snorting somewhere to his left and lifts his gun, ready to fire. There's a single bullet left before he has to reload, so he has to make it count.

"You're a _fool_ ," comes Pestilence's hissing voice. There's no trace of human left to it – it speaks like a swarm of flies, and Rick winces at the sound. His toes hit the edge of a table and he stops, sure that he's in the center of the room. "Do you think you can kill _me_?"

"You're a dirty, fucking _rotten_ , piece of shit and I _will_ kill you," Rick snarls. "I'll hunt you like a fucking _dog_."

Pestilence laughs, and Rick has to close his eyes, shielding them with his free hand when the room is abruptly swarmed with bright light. The windows have been shattered and Rick blinks rapidly, trying to get his eyes to adjust. He sees a shape by one of the windows and aims his gun there. It's fuzzy and he won't dare shoot until he knows just who, exactly, he's shooting at.

The shadow turns and Pestilence laughs again. "You're just as arrogant as Death is," he says, and Rick finally starts to see detail to the shape. The round, bulbous eyes of a fly blink at him and Rick can see his sharp, needle-like teeth in his jaw.

Rick lifts his gun, prepared to fire, but Pestilence holds up a hand and Rick stops. "You may not have killed him, but Daryl and your friend are dead," he says, and Rick takes a step back. The words feel like he's been shot all over again. "If you'd like, you can come to the window and see."

"You'll trick me again," Rick says, but he finds himself walking to the window anyway, his gun still on the shape of Doctor Woodmore. He casts his gaze outside and sees a mess of slaughtered walkers, but no sign of Merle or Daryl. They would have likely been eaten alive. Rick sees Daryl's crossbow laying on the steps and swallows harshly, trying to shake the image of planting a bullet in his skull away from his mind.

"You know, Rick, I admire you," Pestilence says. "You're determined, I'll give you that. I can make all your dreams come true if you'd let me."

Rick shakes his head harshly. It feels like there's a fly buzzing around inside of his skull. It's making it difficult to listen to what Pestilence is saying. His vision is starting to blur and vibrate and Rick lifts his free hand, stifling a cough behind the back of his hand. The cough doesn't go away though, but worsens, until he's doubling over and fighting for breath. There's blood on his hand, fresh and red, and he spits a wad out of his mouth as he hears Pestilence laugh.

"I can give you a nice room here, Rick," he says, "to enjoy your final hours. Unbothered, no worries. I can give you whatever you want. I could give you your family, your friends, even that pretty archer you're so enamored with."

"F- _fuck you_ ," Rick says, hardly able to speak or breathe from coughing. He grabs at the glass-strewn windowsill and feels his legs collapse, bones in his ankles snapping, and cries out harshly.

Pestilence laughs, letting out a little tutting sound. He rests a hand on Rick's shoulder and Rick hisses when his skin aches and burns where Pestilence touches him. He looks to one side and sees his skin break out in a burning red rash, the veins in his arms turning black.

"What – what are you _doing_ -?" His question is cut off by another harsh coughing fit. He heaves, spitting up another wad of blood and hisses, baring his bloody teeth. He rolls over onto his back and cries out when his shattered ankles and brittle bones crack and snap from the movement. He feels like his fingers might break under the weight of his own gun.

"Rick…" Pestilence sighs, crouching in front of him. "I am…your master." He cocks his head to one side and smiles. "You agree to stop this foolish crusade and I can make you whole again. I can give you everything you want. All you have to do…" He smiles, baring his sharp teeth, his giant eyes blinking, the clicking sound almost hypnotic. Rick's vision is starting to blur and he heaves in another gasp. It feels like his lungs are full of blood and he can't get the air. "Is agree. That's the first step."

Rick bares his teeth, grimacing, and closes his eyes. The rash is spreading across his chest and his heartbeat feels off-kilter, his body screaming at him from the pulverizing of his bones and the abrasions on his chest. It feels like fire, like plague, spreading through his body, and he knows that Pestilence is the cause – that being around him is making Rick sick, not just in mind, but in body as well.

"Just agree to stop," Pestilence says again, coaxing and gentle like the final sleep before death. "And so will I."

Rick opens his eyes again, although it takes all of his might to do so, and heaves in a slow, uneven breath. "I…" He can't speak, he can't spare the strength. All of his might is going to forcing his broken, inactive joints and muscles to move.

"I…"

"Yes?" Pestilence asks, leaning in.

Rick coughs again, his eyes closing as he feels unconsciousness start to seep into him. This is how it felt when he was bleeding out on the tarmac after being shot. This is how it felt when he first woke up from his coma, so unsteady and unsure but he remembers Shane leaning over him, begging him to hang out, to stay just a little longer.

 _Just a little longer_.

He forces his eyes open all the way so that he can see Pestilence's face in sharp clarity. "No," he whispers, and aims the gun in his lap and squeezes the trigger with all his might. The ricochet is enough to snap his wrist and he collapses with a hiss of pain, as the bullet flies into the underside of Pestilence's skull and the insect's face explodes right in front of Rick. Blood and pus land on his skin and Rick's arm falls, limp, as the blackness takes over and he closes his eyes.

He doesn't know how long he's there for. When Pestilence falls, whatever sicknesses he'd inflicted upon Rick fade away, but their effects remain. His wrist and ankles are shattered, his skin is still burning even as the rash begins to dull and cool, fading away. His lungs feel free, abruptly, and the rush of air spark another harsh coughing fit that he can't find the strength to stifle.

That is how Daryl and Merle find him, barely clinging to consciousness. "Holy fuck," Daryl whispers, running in and sliding to a halt by Rick's side. Rick turns his head and blinks up at him, too tired to speak, and Daryl kneels down and takes Rick's head in his hands. "Rick, I'm here."

Rick manages a weak smile, lifting his broken wrist and wincing at the pain. His hand lands limply on Daryl's face. "Whistle," he rasps, no volume to his voice, and Daryl blinks and does, immediately – low, high, low.

Rick's smile cracks and he feels his eyes filling with tears, and then Daryl is holding him as he sobs, but they're dry, heavy sobs that wrack his entire body. Each cry sends electric throbs of pain down his whole core, down to his injured arms and legs. He feels like he can't breathe even though his lungs are clear. Daryl's scent is sharp and dirty, his skin slick with blood, but his breathing is steady and he's _warm_ under Rick's hands.

"Daryl, I…" Rick has to tell him what he saw, what he _did_ , but not now. Now, he can barely get the energy to move, much less speak. "It's done," he finally manages. "He's dead. It's done."

"Yeah, c'n see that," Merle says, nudging the Doctor's corpse, and he sucks in a breath. "Well, nutterbutter, I'll admit I think y'all ten shades of crazy glue, but…but there's some things a man just can't unsee, I guess."

"Can you move?" Daryl asks.

Rick shakes his head. "Not on my own," he replies. "Maybe they'll heal. I don't know."

Daryl nods, and then shifts his weight so that he's sitting by Rick's side instead, carefully adjusting them so that a lot of Rick's weight is supported by his chest and his arms. "Heard your gun go off, then they all just…dropped," Daryl says, knowing Rick is thinking that they should move. The danger is still here, after all.

Rick nods and Daryl presses his face against Rick's sweaty hair and closes his eyes.

"We can take one of the other cruisers," Rick says, remembering that there are two cars still outside that he and Daryl hadn't pilfered that would still work. They can go back to the truck and get their supplies and Daryl's motorcycle and keep moving once Rick is able to move. He feels Daryl nod and sighs, closing his eyes when Daryl's hand tightens in his hair.

"Don't think about that," Daryl says. "We'll handle it. Just rest."

He presses a kiss to Rick's hair and Rick smiles. Just before he closes his eyes he sees Death join in watch by Merle's side, and lifts his head to look at the horseman as the skull grins down at him.

_Well done, Rick. Very well done._


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short filler chapter with feels to help contribute to the illusion of time passing in the narrative and allow a good breathing period before the next major shit happens? Why yes, yes it is.

After the adrenaline dies down, the three of them are tired to the core. Merle barricades the door and the windows, though shattered, are still barred and relatively safe. Rick still can't find the energy to move or try moving. His body feels weak and as thin as spun glass.

Daryl checks him over and tells him that other than his wrist, nothing is actually broken. "It's all in yer head," he says, but Rick can't convince himself of that. Of course, there's no swelling around his ankles. His skin, though still red from the rash, isn't burning and blistered anymore. His lungs can expand and take in air as easily as they ever have.

His wrist _is_ shattered, however, and Daryl wraps Rick's spare shirt tightly around a piece of a broken chair leg and fixes his wrist against it in a makeshift brace. It's an ugly purple color and throbs dully in time to his heartbeat. He can't feel anything in his fingertips and he can't move his hand at all, even before they put the brace on it.

He hopes it will heal in time, but has to think about the fact that he might not ever be able to use his right hand as he did before. He'll have to start practicing shooting with his left in the immediate future anyway, and using his left hand to use his other weapons.

He sighs and closes his eyes, tilting his head back so that it rests against the windowsill. Daryl is by his side, curled up as comfortably as a fox in his burrow, and Merle is sitting across from them, chewing absently on what Rick can only assume is a stale piece of candy he swiped from the bowl on the reception desk.

Rick thinks about the one time Old Ken tried to get a piece of the candy, said it was the sweetest candy in the world and reminded him of his younger days. He'd tried to bribe Carl once to swipe him a piece. Old Ken was one of those dangerous ones, the ones where everything has an ulterior motive. If Rick were to meet him on the street now, he'd put Old Ken down whether he was a walker or not.

He shifts his weight and stifles a hissing growl when his entire body shrieks in pain. Daryl tells him that his ankles and legs are fine, that the only thing really hurt is his wrist, but Rick can't make himself believe it. It _hurts_ , and he wonders how long it'll take before it doesn't hurt anymore. The effects of Famine had been gone as soon as the man had died – but, really, who could say for sure? Were they not all still hungry, still thirsty, still desperately longing for something?

Daryl lifts his head and, after a moment, gently rests it on the windowsill next to Rick's, his eyes on the ceiling. "You think the group's still back at the quarry?"

Merle scoffs. "Probably ditched us 'fore our dust settled."

Rick can't help letting out a hum of agreement. "Shane was bound to leave," he says. "I did pull a gun on him, after all." His throat feels tight and his voice is hoarse from screaming, and running, and breathing in what felt like blood and tar. He clears his throat and winces, giving another grateful nod when Daryl passes a bottle of water into his good hand and he takes a sip from the open container. He downs half of it and his throat feels a little better.

He tilts the water bottle back to right and hands it back, before his eyes meet Merle's. "So Daryl told you…about all this," he says, gesturing vaguely and wincing when his broken hand gives a dull throb of protest at the action.

Merle nods, letting out a soft, low whistle. "'Course, I thought it was crazy," he says with a single nod. He squares his jaw and looks away, lips pressed together for a moment. "Still do." He rubs his hand against the scruff on his face and then looks back to Rick and Daryl. Rick can see his eyes flashing between them. "But just cause it's crazy don't mean it ain't right, right?"

"Right," Rick says with a smile, before he rolls his head around to look at the side of Daryl's face. Daryl's eyes catch his out of the corner and he sees the other man's mouth twitch in a smirk. "So it's cool for _you_ to tell people about my shit, but I'm not allowed to?"

Daryl huffs. "Kinda different when Merle's insistent on accompanyin' our sorry asses on these things," Daryl says with an unapologetic shrug. Rick isn't angry, of course he's not, he could never be angry at Daryl, but he can't help but think that Daryl is treating him the same way Lori and Shane do – like he's too fragile to handle himself, or to handle anyone else.

Rick hums and straightens himself up again, wincing in pain. Merle stands, abruptly, clapping his hands on his thighs. "I'm gonna go scout for some food," he announces, grabbing one of the extra pistols and Rick's machete. "You kids don't have too much fun while I'm gone."

"One of us should go with you," Daryl says, but it's a half-hearted protest and he doesn't make to stand.

"Okay, either the gimp comes with me or we leave him on his own," Merle replies over his shoulder, grinning at Daryl and gesturing towards him with the machete. "Your choice, lil bro. I'll be fine. Don't get into any good fights without me!"

He moves the chairs and tables away from the door that they'd used to barricade it shut and squeezes through. Daryl gets up just long enough to put most of it back into place – it won't stop a determined Merle getting back in but it's enough to deter an ambling walker. Not that there should be any, anymore – Daryl had said they'd all dropped when Pestilence died. Rick can't think of a single reason why any of them would stick around here.

Daryl comes back and sits against the wall like Rick is, as close to him as they can manage with Rick's limbs screaming in pain and unable to rest naturally. He has one leg splayed out to his side, straightened, and the other is bent but resting in the opposite direction so he looks like a lazy schoolchild sprawled behind his desk. His broken wrist is resting in his lap, his good arm settled against his bent leg and twitching with the urge to rub at his injured arms. The wounds dealt from the walkers faded too, as though they were never there. He was never scratched, never infected. He won't get a fever. He won't die.

None of them will die today.

He looks over at Daryl again. The other man has his eyes fixed on the open water bottle and he's holding it with both hands, thumbs idly toying with the little plastic ring around the opening. The cap is long-gone, flung somewhere once Daryl deemed the water here undrinkable. They wouldn't be refilling here. Something about goo in the faucets.

Rick reaches out to him and rests a hand on his wrist. Daryl's hands stop their fidgeting and he looks up, his hair falling across his face. Rick raises a hand and pushes his hair away so that he can see Daryl's eyes. Daryl looks worried, his eyes darting down to Rick's hurt arm, then his chest, then back up again and then down, like he can't hold Rick's gaze for too long. His shoulders are hunched in and he keeps licking his lips like his mouth is dry.

Rick frowns. "What's wrong?" he asks.

Daryl swallows hard enough Rick can hear his throat click. "I wanna touch you," he says, and Rick blinks and cock his head to one side in question. "Merle and I were bangin' on that door for…fuck, felt like hours. We fought our way through and I kept hearin' you screamin'. Merle didn't hear it, so I knew it was just in my head, but I just kept… _hearin_ ' it…"

Daryl shakes his head and looks away, stifling a growl of frustration. He sets the water bottle down and runs his hands through his hair and glares at the corpse of Pestilence still sitting mere feet from them. The body reeks of death and decay, the blood long-dry and black now. Soon they will need to move just to get away from the smell, but for now Rick can ignore it.

"And you were screamin' and I knew he was hurting you, he was _killin_ ' you and I couldn't do a Goddamn thing and then the door finally opened and you were just… _sittin_ ' there, and I thought – for a good long minute, I thought you were dead."

Rick can hear the tears in his voice, and when Daryl turns his head he can see the shine of them there. He reaches out and Daryl takes his hand in both of his and holds it tightly.

"And then you were breathin' and all I could think was _thank God_. _God_ , how fucked up is that? It ain't _God_ that's puttin' you through all this, and it ain't _God_ that's lettin' you do what ya do. It ain't Death, or any other cosmic force bullshit. And I just…I just _need_ to -."

He doesn't say anything else, and Rick, for perhaps the first time, finds himself at a loss to fill in the blank spaces. But what he does know is that Daryl is hurting and desperately needs him, and Rick is incapable of moving.

_It's all in your head._

Rick sits up, the sharp pain of his injured limbs protesting the action vehemently, and leans his forehead against Daryl's shoulder. Daryl is still holding his hand tightly, their fingers interlaced, and Rick can feel the gentle tremble in his shoulders that means he's holding back sobs. He thinks back to mere hours before, when he had been little more than a wreck in the hallway for a similar reason.

He sighs and closes his eyes.

"Daryl, I need to tell you something," he says.

Daryl's breathing hitches and Rick straightens up so that he can look into Daryl's eyes. Rick sighs and looks down, biting his lower lip hard enough to hurt, steeling himself for what he's about to say. He doesn't think Daryl would leave him, but this story might test Daryl's trust in him and to lose that would break Rick in a way he's not sure he would ever be prepared for.

"I killed you," Rick says.

Daryl's fingers tighten between his and Rick lifts his eyes.

"I…was outside a door, and you called for me, and I was scared because I was hearing Carl yelling for me and I knew it wasn't real – just like you did. But you were there and you _felt_ so _real_. And I thought it was you but then I didn't think it was you and I shot you and -."

He breaks off, taking a deep breath.

"Death saved me," Rick says. "I thought – for one stupid, crazy minute, I thought I had actually killed you. That I'd been wrong, and Pestilence had double-played me. And I wanted, God, I wanted _so badly_ to die. I was begging for it."

"Rick -."

"Please, let me finish," Rick says, pulling his hand away from Daryl's and resting it lightly on his arm instead. "I saw you die. I was the one to do it. And if it hadn't been for Death, I probably would'a gotten eaten or killed out there too. So…I guess I'm just sayin' that…you shouldn't put that much faith in me."

Daryl frowns.

"I wish I could be that," Rick whispers. "I wish I was as strong and I need to be, but I ain't."

"What made you think that?" Daryl asks. "That it wasn't really me?"

Rick blinks, shaking his head. "You wouldn't whistle for me," he replies.

Daryl huffs a laugh and when Rick looks at him, he's smiling – it's one of his small smiles from the time before, the ones that only Rick earned and saved and squirreled away like food for the winter. It feels like walking into sunlight, seeing that smile.

"You're a mess, Grimes," Daryl says, warm and heavy with affection, and Rick smiles back.

"Yeah, and you're the one stuck with me."

They both straighten and look towards the door as Merle grunts and shoves his way through. Daryl gets up to help him – eventually, still waiting a comically long amount of time as they enjoy the red-faced man squeeze and shuffle his way into the room – but then all three of them are back by the windows. Merle has a pillowcase of non-perishables that Rick and Daryl hadn't had time or room to take with them in the first round.

"Soup's on me, boys," Merle says with a grin, handing Daryl a can of tomato soup with a pull-tab opening, and then he hands Rick one, which Rick, after a brief struggle, sets on the ground by his thigh and opens with one hand. Drinking tomato soup cold straight out of the can isn't the worst thing he's ever done – in fact, it reminds him of the one and only time Shane convinced him to try Bloody Marys one memorable Sunday morning after a blackout Saturday night. Worst mistake he's ever made.

"Thanks," Daryl grunts, drinking his own soup and finishing the can in three long gulps. Rick nurses his a little more – going too long without breathing but still using his chest makes his throat ache and his lungs twinge. It feels like if he breathes too deep or doesn't breathe often enough he might suffocate.

Merle grins at them both. "So, nutterbutter, guess the next point'a business is getting you on your feet."

Rick grimaces. "I know they ain't broken," he says, nodding to his legs, "but everything hurts. I feel like I can't fuckin' _move_ 'em, let alone stand on 'em."

"We can't just stay here," Daryl says, his expression stern but his voice sympathetic. Rick hardly has a reason to fake it, after all, and Daryl knows better than anyone that the horsemen have ways of affecting men past their deaths, and in such close proximity.

Rick presses his lips together and nods. "I know," he says. Then, he runs his good hand through his hair and sighs. "I know we gotta move, I just…can't."

Merle nods and looks around the room, humming to himself, before he stands. He goes over to the corner of the room where the emergency exit is. The door is still closed and next to the exit is a little cubby hole where visitors could put their cell phones and wallets if they wanted. No one ever did.

There's an upturned table and several stools scattered around that section and Merle absently kicks at them, whistling the rooster's song under his breath. They must play the same movies in prison as they do in asylums. The thought makes Rick smile to himself.

Finally, Merle lets out a crow of delight and reaches into the mess of rubble, grabbing something and giving it a hearty yank. The tables and chairs braced over and around it crumble to the ground with a loud crash and Daryl winces, hissing Merle's name in warning.

Rick's eyes widen when he sees what Merle is holding, unfolding the thing carefully and setting it on the floor. It's a wheelchair – one of the foot pedals is snapped in half and the wheels look horribly misshapen, but when Merle gives it a testing push, it rolls.

"Problem solved," he says with a wide grin. He rolls the wheelchair over to Rick and pats the seat in welcome. "We get you hauled into this, sittin' nice and pretty, then we can getcha to one of the cars and ride off into the sunset. Whattdya say?"


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure I'll be able to post anything this Friday because of scheduling conflicts. I will try but I'm letting y'all know now that you might get a chapter later in the weekend. This one is a little longer and features appearances from some fan faves. Enjoy!

"Where should we head next?"

Rick shakes his head, rubbing the fingers of his good hand through his hair. He keeps forgetting about his injured wrist, though it is always quick to remind him of how dumb he is to do that. As they drive away from the facility in another cruiser, he can't deny that he does feel better, though. His legs don't hurt as much and he thinks maybe, if they put enough distance between them and Pestilence's body, the hold on his mind will disappear and he'll be able to walk freely again.

He needs to be able to start moving as soon as possible. Like this they're slow and cumbersome and it doesn't take a genius to figure out that anyone in a wheelchair isn't long for the world they live in now. Every now and again he gives his legs a cautious nudge, trying to stretch out in the backseat. It's an uncomfortable fit since the wheelchair is on the other side of the backseat, caging him in and folded clumsily, shoved into place beside him.

Daryl turns in the passenger seat, eyeing him as he flexes his toes and gives another sharp hiss of pain. "Rick?" he hazards, and Rick lifts his eyes. Since Daryl confessed to him what he'd seen, how he'd thought Rick was dead, Rick can't shake the feeling that Daryl is finally feeling that pain and longing Rick always feels when they're too far apart from each other. Daryl looks like he would rather be curled up in the backseat with Rick, but the wheelchair wouldn't fit in the passenger seat with Merle and they need as many eyes forward as they can get.

Rick manages a weak smile and shakes his head, closing his eyes. "I don't know," he replies.

Daryl presses his lips together and nods, eyes skating away for a moment before they land on Rick's face again, like he can't make himself look away for more than a second at a time. "War's all that's left," he says quietly.

Rick nods, pressing his lips together. War, then Death himself. Or at least Death's physical vessel, which means him. He doesn't know if Daryl simply forgot what Rick told him, or if he's deliberately not bringing it up in the hopes that with a different target Rick might lose track. Like he could. Since he first started having his dreams, Rick knows exactly what his destiny has been. He must die, the final nail in the coffin of the world, before there can be any peace.

"They probably went to join up with that other group y'all were talkin' about," Merle chimes in, chewing on a piece of jerky loudly in the driver's seat. He's heading back to where the truck was taken apart so that they can grab Daryl's motorcycle and the rest of their supplies. Hopefully it won't have been taken or scavenged by opportunists. There are walkers lining the roads and they lunge and snarl at the trio as they rumble past in the cruiser, but it's almost like they're too afraid to really chase them. Maybe they lose interest too quickly, or maybe they're well-fed, but Rick likes to think that they know exactly who's in the car, who it is that's slaying their masters.

Rick knows he should have some power over them, but try as he might he can't sink into that mindset that comes to him so easily at times. When he raises his weapon and shoots to kill, when he's ready to welcome a new soul through Death's door, he feels cold and sure. He has _certainty_ , but right now he feels as weak as a newborn lamb and just about as dangerous.

"We should go," Daryl says after another moment, turning back around in his seat. "Try and find 'em."

"They won't believe us," Rick replies. "And I'm injured. Even if I can walk again soon, I can't shoot with my right hand. My aim's shit with my left, if I can even figure out how to shoot. I'm a liability."

"They're our friends," Daryl says sharply. He's looking out the front, through the windshield, but he reaches back and gently brushes his fingers against Rick's shin. The touch feels warm even through his jeans and Rick sighs, closing his eyes.

Are they his friends? Or were they ever just destined to be cannon fodder?

"Heads up," Merle says quietly as the car begins to slow. "We got company."

Rick raises his head as they turn the corner and he can see the shape of the truck in the distance. There's another car driving past and even as they approach he can see its brake lights go on as it slows to a stop just past the vehicle. Whether the people inside are stopping at the sight of the potential loot in the truck bed, or because they're seeing the cruiser pull up behind them, Rick can't be sure. Merle guns the engine just a little so that they make it to the truck just as the lights on the car die and the doors open.

Two women step out and Rick's eyes widen. "No," he whispers, reaching forward to grab desperately at Daryl's shirt. "No. We have to leave."

"They could be friendly," Daryl says quietly. Rick hears Merle give a lecherous hum, his grin wide. The two women are young, thin and pretty. There's a taller one, older, with short-cropped brown hair and a holster wrapped tight to her thigh, a small pistol tucked in there. The second one has long, wavy blonde hair pulled into a tight ponytail, wisps of strays haloing her head, and wide blue eyes that are fixed on their approaching vehicle. As Rick watches the taller one reaches out and barks a sharp command and the blonde comes to her side.

Merle stops the car and kills the engine and Daryl gets out of the car despite Rick's protests. When he does, the brunette grabs for her gun but doesn't pull it and Daryl lifts his hands in a gesture of peace.

"Don't shoot me," he says, his voice quiet like he's trying to coax a deer closer to him. "Not gonna hurt ya. Name's Daryl, this is my truck."

"Technically it's _my_ truck," Merle mutters as the brunette's eyes narrow. They're clear and green like bottle glass when it's been sharpened and washed up in the ocean. Rick sees a shadow move behind them but can't honestly tell if it's just the jut of the trees as they cast shade alone the road or if it's the same shadow he usually sees. It doesn't look like it touches the women but Rick feels dread in his stomach piling up like vomit. He thinks he might be sick.

"This ain't your truck," the brunette says, her accent thick just like Daryl's when he's upset. She jerks her head towards the truck. "Just found it."

"You can check the registration if ya like," Daryl says with one of his sweet, sheepish smiles. "Look, all I care about's gettin' my bike. My friends and I got food, and the beddin' we need. Ain't gonna fightcha for it."

"Your friends should come out," the brunette says tightly, glaring at the car. From where they are Rick knows she can't see past the glare of the windshield.

Merle grins and throws a wink over his shoulder. "That's my cue," he says with a grin in Rick's direction and moves to get out of the car.

"No," Rick says, trying to grab for Merle but he doesn't make it in time. Merle isn't an unintimidating man and he hopes that Merle has enough common sense not to make himself look too mean and threatening. The women tense up noticeably when he steps out of the car but at least he seems to understand that, between the two of them, Daryl is the less threatening-looking one.

"We got a third, but he's injured," Daryl explains when they look expectantly at the car. "Can't walk. Busted up his legs real bad."

"How?" the brunette asks, eyes narrowed in suspicion. She has a hand on the other woman's arm as though holding her back. The blonde's arms are crossed tightly across her thin chest. She can't be older than sixteen.

"In a fight," Merle explains with a dismissive gesture. Rick huffs. He supposes that's one way to explain it.

They stay like that for a moment, silent and unmoving, and then Rick sees the blonde step closer to the taller woman and say something quietly to her. It is, apparently, something that the brunette doesn't like, because she shakes her head in a vehement 'No'.

"The truck doesn't work," Daryl offers after another moment of silence. "Got all the wires ripped out and shit. We just want the bike, that's all, then we'll leave ya be." He gestures to himself. "Ain't got no gun on me. You can keep yours ready if ya want."

"I want to see your friend," the brunette says, but draws her weapon anyway. She hands it to her companion. "Beth, shoot 'im if he does anythin' stupid. And you." She fixes her piercing gaze on Merle. "Stay right where you are."

"You got it, sweetheart," Merle drawls, and Daryl huffs a breath and gets fully out of the car, closing the door. He keeps his hands raised and open as he makes a wide circle towards the women. The brunette only relents when she's sure that the blonde has a tight and sure grip on the gun, and then she walks towards the cruiser. Merle jerks his head, telling her which door to go to.

Rick flinches when the door flies open, hissing and holding his injured wrist to his chest. The skin is still a swollen mess of purple and black under his makeshift bandaging and throbs with the motion, as do his legs.

The brunette regards him coolly, but Rick can see in her eyes that she's shocked by what she sees. He bites his lip and looks back at her before her eyes roam down his body, taking in the blood splattered across him, the wheelchair by his side.

"You been bit?" she asks guardedly.

Rick shakes his head. "Not bit," he assures her. "Just dumb."

"Dumb'll get you killed out here."

"Don't I know it."

Her eyes flash to Merle, then back to Rick. "You been out here long like that?"

Rick shakes his head. "Just happened," he says, which is the truth. In the shade her features are striking, angular and strong like a statue. In comparison the blonde has a much softer, younger face. This woman looks like she's been in the apocalypse for a lot longer than a few weeks.

Rick hears the creak of metal and looks in time to see Daryl gingerly easing his bike off of the back of the truck. The blonde woman has come forward to help him and it's stupid – he sees the brunette tense but he knows Daryl won't hurt her, but she doesn't know that.

"Daryl won't do anythin'," Rick says, although he knows that if she decides he's dangerous, nothing he can say will stop her doing something. As soon as the back wheel touches the road the blonde steps back and Daryl finishes pulling the bike off the truck. He stands on the other side of it and Rick can see them talking.

Daryl is charming when he wants to be. He wouldn't be surprised if he's trying to make friends with the blonde. Sometimes sharp and jealous shakes itself around his eyes, visions he can't help but see of a future that will never happen flashing in front of him. He knows these women – of course he does, that's why he had tried to keep the brothers away from them.

"Enough talk!" the brunette snaps after a minute, stepping away from the car but leaving the door open. The blonde jumps back, wide-eyed and startled. She's like a baby rabbit, Rick thinks, too fresh and sweet to know when there's a fox nearby.

" _Maggie_ ," the blonde whispers, rushing towards her companion. "C'mon, we can help -."

"That's enough," Maggie says with a sharp look, raising her hand.

"Daddy's a _doctor_ , he can _help_."

"There ain't no helpin' these folk," Maggie says, glaring at Daryl as he ambles by with his bike, head lowered and looking for all the world like he's ignoring them. He isn't, Rick knows that. Daryl can sense eyes on him from across the room, his hearing is sharp and focused and he listens to _everything_.

"Well, hey now," Merle finally says, leaning against the door heavy enough that it creaks. "Ain't no need to be so hostile, sweetheart. We're givin' ya all our food, ain't we?"

The blonde blinks, wide-eyed. "That's…that's all you have?" she says, her high voice thick with sympathy and concern. Rick ducks his head to hide his smile – his Daryl is so good at appealing to the bleeding hearts. In less than a minute he's wormed his way into this precious child's affection and he does it so effortlessly. Pride and envy are closely linked and Rick feels like he might choke on it.

Daryl walks the bike to the front of the cruiser and lets it stand, kicking the kickstand down so that it can rest without the use of his hands keeping it upright. "We had a group," he says, pushing his hair back from his face and keeping his eyes down. "Got separated, then Rick got injured. But we'll do fine, really. We'll leave ya be, I promised we would."

"Lil bro -."

"Shut up, Merle," Daryl hisses, glaring at his brother. Then he nods to the women. "Thanks again." Then he grabs the bike and pushes the kickstand back up, walking it towards the two open doors on the passenger side.

Rick feels a strange mix of hope and dread, because he knows they could go their separate ways now, and whatever terrible fate might befall these women would be out of his hands – but he also knows, because Daryl is so sweet and charming when he needs to be, that they're not going to separate now. The blonde has attached to him, imprinted like a baby chick. Daryl inspires that kind of protectiveness in people.

" _Maggie_ ," the blonde protests again, and then, louder, "Wait!"

"Beth, _shut it_ ," Maggie hisses, and Rick is reminded strongly of Daryl and Merle and for a moment he finds himself smiling.

Beth rushes forward and touches Daryl's arm lightly. "Our daddy's a doctor," she says, sweet and high. Daryl raises an eyebrow at her. "If your friend's injured, I'm sure there's something he could do. For all of you."

" _No_ ," Maggie says, reaching forward and yanking the gun from Beth's hand. "We'll be on our way now. Goodbye."

"Maggie, we can't turn away people in need," Beth protests sharply, forcing the other woman to stop, her shoulders tense. Merle is silent, chewing on the same piece of jerky, but Daryl keeps moving like he's going to bring the bike back around. He doesn't start it, and Rick catches his eye through the gap in the open door.

Daryl winks at him and Rick shakes his head.

Finally Maggie sighs and turns around, using her gun to gesture between Merle and Daryl. "Follow us. We got a farm a few miles away. Daddy'll take a look at you and then once that dumbass o'yours is fixed up you're _out_."

Merle lets out a crow of victory. "That's more like it!"

" _And_ we're keepin' the food," Maggie finishes with a nod. Merle lifts his hands in surrender and Daryl, after a moment, gives a slow nod. "Make yourselves useful then and help us haul it up. We'll leave then."

Daryl smirks to himself, pushing down the kickstand as Merle goes over to help unload the truck. He doesn't join his brother, whether because he doesn't want to outnumber the women or because he feels like letting Merle do some of the heavy lifting. He braces himself against the flank of the car past Rick's door and crosses his arms over his chest.

"Charmer," Rick says after a moment and Daryl grunts, turning his head to regard Rick.

"You didn't want us to talk to 'em," he says. "Why?"

Rick swallows, that sour feeling sitting in the back of his throat as he turns to look at Maggie, Beth and Merle unloading the truck. He thinks about Beth and Maggie, how in another life they might have become killers all their own. He thinks of Maggie, bowed over herself in grief, screaming as Daryl carried the body of her sister out of a hospital. He thinks about how silent Daryl had been, how he had touched Beth's hair with something like longing – it's a jealous, possessive feeling that he's feeling right now and he knows it's not right. Daryl is his in all ways that matter and yet -.

"I've seen them die," Rick says.

"You've seen everyone die," Daryl replies, but he lifts his eyes to watch them as well.

"You loved her," Rick says, nodding to Beth. "Maybe not in that way, but you did. You were the one who carried her body out."

Daryl is silent for a moment. "Do you think I'll love her now?" _After everything?_

Rick shakes his head. "You wouldn't understand."

"And I never will if you don't talk to me."

His accent is getting thicker, angrier. He's on the defensive and Rick knows it isn't fair, to accuse Daryl of things he's only seen in his dreams. He lifts his hand to run it through his hair and curses when it gives a sharp throb in protest.

"If they can help us, if that doctor can fix ya, that's all I need to know."

"I know I ain't broken," Rick says. "Not for real. But I don't know how we're gonna explain it to 'im if there's no reason I can't walk. They'll think we tricked 'em, for whatever reason. It won't end well."

"We'll burn that bridge when we get to it."

"Daryl…" Rick shakes his head, the venomous cocktail of anger and fear and jealousy coating the inside of his throat. He fights the urge to spit the words he wants to say. "I'm so sorry."

"Stop apologizin' for shit when I don't even know what yer apologizin' for," Daryl snaps. "Might'a worked with your wife but it ain't gonna work for me."

"You won't let me say anything else," Rick replies.

" _Rick_." Abruptly Daryl straightens and turns, bending down so that he can brace his forearm against the top of the car. Rick is reminded abruptly of when he used to do the same thing, leaning in when he'd pulled over a car, shining the light in the driver's face and asking for his license and registration. In another life he might have arrested Merle for drug possession, or Daryl for speeding. Would he have known, then, just as he knows now whenever he looks at Daryl, how much he adores him? Would he have seen the shine of blue in Daryl's eyes and looked at the grease and sweat in his hair and felt the same choking emotions he's feeling now.

Daryl is leaning over him and Rick wants to kiss him but he can't move. He's caught in blue amber, a fly destined to live in stasis for a thousand years. He doesn't feel like he can breathe.

Daryl doesn't speak and for a long time Rick doesn't think he will. He licks his lips and sucks in a breath. "I'm sorry," he says, rushing forward before Daryl can say anything in response; "I feel like I'm living in two worlds. And there's a world where you ain't mine and I can't…"

He breathes out and clenches his jaw hard enough that it aches. "I _won't_ accept that."

Daryl regards him for another long moment, before his attention is caught as he hears a trunk door slam and sees Merle walking back towards the cruiser. Beth and Maggie are watching them and Rick sees the gears in Daryl's head turning, before they abruptly go still, as though he's made a decision.

He turns back to Rick and leans in, gently cupping the back of his neck, and presses their mouths together. Rick gasps, tightly grabbing onto Daryl's clothes with his good hand, a shiver running through him when he feels Daryl's tongue slip between the opening his lips made. Daryl pulls away soon after and squeezes Rick's nape. He pushes their foreheads together and smirks.

"You're in _this_ world, Rick," he says quietly, but with enough force that it could make a mountain bow to him and split itself in two. "Better get used to it."

Then he pulls back and closes Rick's door, and then his, and climbs onto his bike, kickstarting it with a low roar. Merle is smirking when he climbs in the driver's seat and Rick catches Beth and Maggie looking at Daryl with wide eyes before Maggie seems to snap out of it and hustles Beth into the car.

"Can't leave you lovebirds alone for two seconds, can I?" Merle asks as he turns the cruiser on, pulling up and circling the truck so that he's behind the women as they start to drive away. Rick hears the rumble of the bike behind them and turns as best he can so that he can see Daryl through the back windshield. Daryl smiles and waves his fingers at him from where they're curled around the bike's throttle.

Rick smiles and rests his head against the back of the seat and closes his eyes.

 

 

He wakes as the car comes to a stop and turns. He sees a wooden sign marking the entrance to the Greene farm and swallows, sitting upright as best he can. He sees the big red shape of a barn looming up ahead of them next to a quaint little farmhouse.

His visions of the Greenes were blurry most of the time, but he remembers the voice of the man who would prove to be Beth and Maggie's father, even though his name is escaping him. The timelines of his visions versus reality are disjointed and turning ragged, but he feels himself getting more and more tense as they approach.

He stifles a yawn behind his hand and clears his throat. "Stay away from the barn," he says. He doesn't know if the Greenes have started to collect neighbors yet, but his injured hand is burning and freezing all at once and he wishes he could grab his weapon and investigate it himself.

They pass a fenced-in field and Rick spies a pair of horses, grazing lazily in the field. One of them is a pretty, light chestnut, its white socks and dark mane a nice contrast to the lush green of the field. The other is far dirtier, a mix of brown splotches that, in places, Rick can neither identify as mud or hair.

The second horse lifts its head as they drive by and shakes its mane out and Rick's eyes widen as it trots over to the fence and puts its nose out far as the women drive ahead.

"Stop the car," Rick whispers.

Merle grunts, but obeys, and Rick leans his elbow against the control of the window so that it rolls down and he can look in the horse's eyes. They're mismatched and blink lazily at him, the pretty pink around the horse's muzzle damp and stained green with grass.

Rick smiles as Daryl pulls the bike up beside him and the horse whinnies as though in greeting, pushing its nose against Daryl's arm. Daryl smiles and shifts his weight, trying to keep the bike upright.

"He recognizes us," Rick says quietly, and Daryl look at him. "It's the horse, Daryl. From Atlanta."

Daryl blinks at him, before he looks back at the horse. "Ain't like there's only one skewbald in all of Georgia," he says, but his voice is low with uncertainty. After all, any horse that could survive Atlanta isn't one to adhere to something as simple as probability. But Rick knows those eyes, he knows that little head bob as the horse regards them coolly.

"Hey, troublemaker," Rick greets softly, and the horse's tail thrashes and it gives another whicker of 'Hello'. Rick grins.

"It's him," he says, and then sits back. He's not sure what to make of that – on the one hand, the horse being here is a good sign. This farm, for all Rick knows and fears about it, had been the sight of many a disaster. This is where…

Rick shakes his head harshly as though a fly is buzzing around it. " _This_ world," he mutters to himself, rubbing his thumb up the chair leg Daryl had attached to his arm. He needs to stay in the reality, in what matters _now_. And what matters now is Daryl, and War, and making sure he can ever walk again.

They pull up next to Maggie under the shade of a copse of trees and Beth and Maggie get out of the car. Daryl kills the engine of the motorcycle and braces it carefully on the root-knotted ground.

"Go get daddy," Maggie tells Beth. "And tell Otis that we'll need help gettin' stuff to the stores."

Beth nods and runs towards the house, calling for their father. Merle gets out of the car and Daryl takes his place by Rick's door again.

Maggie's eyes move sharply between the two of them. If anything is on her mind, she keeps stubbornly silent.

Daryl jerks his head towards the field with the horses. The painted horse that had greeted them before has trotted over to be by the fence near them again and Rick sees Maggie's eyes follow. "They yours?" he asks.

"No, Noah's," Maggie replies sarcastically, before she rolls her eyes and shifts her weight, sighing. "Bailey's Beth's horse. Quarter mix. The other one just showed up one day and we figured he'd be safer here than out there." She looks back at the horse, who gives a soft whinny when Rick meets his eye again, pawing at the fence line. "Stranger seems to like you."

"We go way back," Rick says with a smile.

"Well, feel free to take him once you're back on your feet," Maggie says, and then she lifts her head when she hears Beth calling for her. Three people follow the blonde teenager as she walks back over to them. One of them is obviously their father, noticeably older than the other two, with a thick white beard and deep smile lines. The second is a man, about Rick's age, thick with muscle from working on a farm and bald under his cap. The third is a woman, presumably an older relative of the girls but younger than the first man. She has a thick woolen shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders and what looks to be a permanent furrow in her brow.

"Daddy, this is Daryl," Beth says, coming to a breathless halt by Maggie, "and his brother Merle, and then Rick is still in the car. He's injured. Daryl, this is my daddy, Herschel, and our neighbors, Mister Otis and Miss Patricia."

"Good to meet ya," Daryl says with a respectful nod. "Really appreciate anythin' you can do for Rick."

"Yes, well, who would I be to ignore a soul in need?" Herschel says, his voice just as high and gentle as Rick remembers hearing it. He smiles and closes his eyes, soaking into the sound of it. "Do you have a way to bring him inside? It'll be dark soon."

"We got a wheelchair," Merle says. "Hold on."

"Otis, come help me with this," Maggie says, and Otis nods and Patricia and he go to help Maggie unload the truck. Beth hovers awkwardly at Herschel's side as Merle yanks the wheelchair out of the side of the car and brings it around to Rick's side.

"Upsy-daisy, nutterbutter," Merle grunts, as Daryl holds the wheelchair steady and Merle helps Rick as he gingerly opens the door and shoves himself out. He would like to say that he made it to the chair with some form of dignity and grace, but truthfully he all but collapsed into it, relying on Merle to keep the weight off his injured wrist as he tried to right himself in the seat. The movements jarred his sore and aching body and he had to clench his teeth tightly to stop himself cursing at the motion.

Herschel and Beth walk with them as Daryl and Merle try and navigate the thick grass and bumpy terrain on the way to the house. Every jut and judder hurts and Rick does his best to remain quiet throughout. He has, after all, taken much worse damage and that at least had been real. The porch is up two small steps and Daryl hauls the wheelchair onto its big wheels, angling the smaller front ones onto the next step, and Merle bends down to carry the load up until they reach the porch. They make their way inside and Daryl pushes Rick into the dining room at Herschel's command.

"You boys look a little worse for wear," Herschel says lightly.

Merle scoffs. "Could say that again," he replies. "Feelin' like we been fightin' the Goddamn apocalypse."

Herschel regards him for a moment, before he shakes his head. "Well, I suppose you're not wrong," he says. "Beth, dear, could you bring me my bag?" Beth nods and disappears around the corner. "I'll admit when I read about the dead inheriting the Earth, this isn't what I had in mind."

At that, Rick perks up. "You know Revelations?" he asks.

Herschel nods, looking at Rick in faint surprise. "You?"

Rick nods back emphatically. "Do you believe in it?"

Herschel sighs, sitting heavily at the head of the table. Merle makes himself at home on the opposite end of the table and Daryl remains standing, a shadow at Rick's left shoulder. "I suppose I must. I didn't think I'd see the end of days."

"The end, maybe," Rick says. "If -."

"Rick, no," Daryl says, resting a hand against Rick's shoulder and squeezing tight. He digs his nails into the furrows left by Famine's claws and Rick winces, pressing his lips together tightly.

Herschel looks between them, and then his dark eyes look over Rick, Daryl and Merle as though seeing them for the first time all over again. Underneath the bandage, Rick's psychiatric bracelet is hidden, but as soon as he pulls the shirt away he'll see it. He'll think Rick is crazy and send them all away. Rick curses his enthusiasm.

"Boys," Herschel says quietly, "is there something you'd like to tell me? I did, after all, let you into my home. The least you could do is be honest about how you came here."

"We came here 'cause yer gals were tryin' to hijack our shit," Merle says with a shrug. "And they said you's a doctor. Well, we need a doctor."

"Evidently," Herschel says. His eyes turn to Rick and Rick feels like he's pierced by the man's gaze. Perhaps he is a believer too, blessed and cursed with vision. Rick feels like Herschel looks at him and knows exactly who he is, like he can see the skull grinning from underneath Rick's flesh.

Rick swallows. "I won't lie to you," he says. "Anything you ask me, I'll answer."

Herschel hums. "Very well," he says, just as Beth reappears with his bag. She sets it on the table in front of him and he opens it and begins to fish around inside, and Beth takes a seat on the other side of the table, opposite Rick. "Are there any more of you? Or just you three?"

"We had a group," Rick says. "We left 'em. Don't know where they are now."

"And why did you leave?"

"To -." Daryl's hand tightens on his shoulder and Rick hesitates, before he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, in, and then out. "Daryl, he's gotta know."

"No, he don't."

"He knows Revelations," Rick protests. "He'll believe me."

"Let nutterbutter talk," Merle says.

Daryl lets out a soft growl, but releases Rick's shoulder and Rick feels a burn where his hand just was. Daryl's anger washes over him like scalding water and Rick immediately wants to take it all back, but he swore honesty to this man and he won't deny him the truth.

Rick takes a deep breath and meets Herschel's eyes. "My name is Rick Grimes," he says. "A few months ago I was shot in the line of duty. Went into a coma."

Herschel's eyes flicker in recognition. "I know that name," he says. "We prayed for you." Then, a shadow passes over his face, dark and angry. "And then you went on to kill three people." He straightens up, closing his doctor's bag. "Why should I help you?"

"I did," Rick says with a nod. He hears Beth let out a little squeak of fear and sees her hands go to her mouth. He takes another deep breath. "In my dream, I had visions. Visions of the apocalypse. The four horsemen, specifically, and I know that if I find them all, and kill them all, the walkers will go away. The apocalypse will end. The world will…recover."

"So you intend to kill again," Herschel says. Then he pushes himself to his feet. "I'm sorry, Rick, but I can't have you stay here. I would like you and your friends to leave."

"Doc, c'mon," Daryl says, taking a step forward and stopping when Herschel fixes his icy gaze on the younger man. "Please. I know it sounds crazy – Hell, for a long time I didn't believe it, but I've seen this shit with my own eyes now and…" He looks to Beth, and then to Rick, and shakes his head. "Please. You don't gotta do anythin' but fix him. _Please_."

"I'm sorry – Daryl, was it?" Herschel asks, and Daryl nods. "I will not provide aid to a murderer who intends to kill again." He looks at Rick. "Repentance is important, especially now. Do you repent what you've done?"

Rick licks his lips. "No."

"You have killed many. You intend to keep doing so."

"Yes."

"Then I cannot help you."

"Herschel, please," Rick says, leaning forward and reaching for the man. Herschel takes a step back as though his touch might infect him, as though Rick is rife with disease. "And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, 'Behold, the dwelling place of God'. He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away."

Herschel's eyes narrow; "And I saw three unclean spirits like frogs come out of the mouth of the dragon, and out of the mouth of the beast, and out of the mouth of the false prophet." He looks between Merle and Daryl and Rick in turn, and shakes his head. "There are many tricks and false things the Devil might say to a man, Rick. I cannot help you."

Rick presses his lips together, breathing out, and he looks at Beth for a moment, before turning his gaze back to Herschel. "I know what's in the barn," he says. Beth straightens up and Herschel's eyes widen. "I know. If you heal me, I can leave, and I can heal them. I can bring them back."

"What's in the barn?" Daryl asks quietly.

Rick sighs, his eyes still on Herschel. "Walkers," he says, and Merle lets out a low curse. "Their family. Their friends. Herschel…" He leans forward again and this time Herschel doesn't take a step back, either too stunned to move or caught in Rick's prophecy. "There's only War left. Pestilence and Famine are dead. I promised to talk honestly and I am. I just need to find War. But I can't…I can't even walk. _Please_."

Herschel's eyes narrow and Rick can see him thinking. "I will not help you," he says, and Rick deflates with another sigh. "I will need to pray and think over what you have said. You and your friends can sleep in your car, or in the lean-to with the horses tonight. You are not welcome in my home." He takes a deep breath. "In the morning, I will decide."

Rick smiles, weak and grateful. "Thank you," he says.

"I would like you to leave now," Herschel says, and then turns and leaves the room. Daryl mutters an ugly word under his breath and grabs Rick's wheelchair, guiding him back out.

Beth stands and comes around to take Rick's hand in both of hers. "Is it true?" she asks. "Can you really save them?"

Rick looks down at her hands, and her arms. They're clean right now, unmarred. He turns his hand to brush his fingers over the inside of her wrists and then lifts his head. "Yes," he says, and Beth's eyes fill with tears. Merle comes forward and Beth flinches out of the way as they haul Rick through the door and back down the porch steps. Maggie and Otis and Patricia are gone as they make a steady pace back to the cruiser.

"Fat lot of good that did us," Daryl mutters. "You shouldn't've said anythin', Rick."

Rick smiles to himself and nods. "Maybe," he replies. On the other side of the fence his horse greets him with another high whinny and he lifts his head. "He's going to help us."

"Yeah," Daryl scoffs. "In your world, maybe."

Rick turns his head to look at Daryl over his shoulder. "In _this_ world," he says. "The only one that matters, right?"

Daryl shakes his head and rolls his eyes, but leans down and presses a kiss to Rick's messy hair. "Yeah. Right."

 


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got snowed in and almost didn't make it home! Woo!

The day crawls towards nighttime and no one comes from the house to tell them that they can come inside, or that Herschel has changed his mind and will let them in. Rick, Daryl and Merle manage to get to the lean-to at one corner of the field and the splotchy horse trots over to them, whickering lowly in greeting. He lips at Rick's pockets, ears forward, and shakes his mane out when Rick gently pets his cheek.

"Go on, get," Merle says, slapping the horse lightly on the rump until he snorts and trots away, but he doesn't go far. The night is mild and Rick is sure the horses won't mind forgoing their normal bedding for one night.

Daryl helps Rick out of his wheelchair and onto the ground and Rick hisses, leaning against a strong wooden post in the middle of the lean-to. There are two doors on either side leading to small  fenced-in areas where horses could rest, and along the opposite side there are hooks at eye level to tie horses to so that they can be groomed, tacked up, and whatever else. The rest of the lean-to is sparse, littered lightly with hay and dry grass. Still, it's warm and out of the wind.

"Why'd you have to go all Apocalypse Preacher on them, huh?" Merle mutters. "And you's a murderer too? Damn, lil bro, you really know how to pick 'em."

"Shut up, Merle," Daryl hisses. "You're the one who said he should say what he gotta say. Now we're out on our ass, nowhere to go and no way to get there."

Rick closes his eyes, resting his forehead against his uninjured hand, and closes his eyes. "They'll help us," he says after a moment. Daryl goes quiet and still and when Rick lifts his head he can see Daryl leaning against the wall of the lean-to, the gleam of the metal rings matching the grey in his eyes. " _Herschel_ will help us. I just gotta…"

He grits his teeth and shoves his forehead against his hand. His head hurts, suddenly, as though someone has laid him against a cement block and put a great weight on his forehead and it just keeps building and building until it feels like his skull will either shatter or the concrete will melt around his head.

He can't see what happens, he doesn't remember how he and Herschel and the Greenes had become friends. Or maybe he had never seen it. Or maybe he'd seen it too many times. His head _hurts_.

After a moment, Daryl sighs, and Rick hears him rooting around in one of their backpacks. "Here," he says, and Rick lifts his head to see Daryl holding out a granola bar to him, half-unwrapped. Rick takes it with a small smile and bites half of it off, handing the rest back to Daryl to finish. Daryl does, crumpling up the plastic and stuffing it back into the bag.

"So what the fuck do we do now?" Merle asks, throwing his arms out to either side. "I don't know bout'chy'all, but I don't plan on makin' this lil hovel my home sweet home, you get me? You got us here, nutterbutter, figure out how to get us outta here."

"Where we gonna go, huh?" Daryl snaps. He slides down the wall until his feet are out, legs stretched along the concrete and dirt floor. One of his legs presses against the outside of Rick's and although his ankles twinge, they don't hurt as much as he expected. Maybe he is getting better. Maybe it was the proximity to Pestilence that had caused him so much pain, and he's actually going to heal without Herschel's help. Then they can be on their way and Rick can make do with his left hand for a while.

Merle scoffs, shaking his head. "Look, I ain't as comfortable with the 'see what happens' la-di-da way of life you are, lil bro. I need's me a _plan_ , and I ain't lookin' at one right now, I'll tell ya that."

"Merle, I don't know what yer expectin' me to say," Daryl snaps with a roll of his eyes.

"I get it," Rick sighs, tiredly. He raises his head to look in Merle's direction, although with the way the light is arcing he can't see more of the man than a silhouette, haloed by the light coming from the Green house. "You followed us out here expectin' me to be crazy, or expectin' me to be right. And now I'm right, I need to keep bein' right. I should have a plan. I don't have a plan, though – never have." Rick shakes his head and closes his eyes, letting his head rest back against the post. "War will come to us, or we will find him. One way or another, this is gonna end."

"You can't even walk, Rick," Daryl whispers, and Rick remembers the quiet conversation they'd shared what feels like so long ago, sitting on the tailgate of Merle's truck. _I'll never leave you willingly._ "How you gonna do anythin' if you can't even walk?"

Rick sighs again. "I'm tired," he says, turning his head away. He pulls his injured wrist close to his chest and curls up as best he can, drawing away from Daryl's touch. He hears Daryl hum and Merle makes a quiet arrangement to go take the first watch. After a quiet, hesitant moment, Rick hears Daryl slide into a place near him on the floor. If Rick opens his eyes, he's sure he'll see Daryl staring right back at him.

They lay like that in silence. Rick isn't even aware of falling asleep but he knows that suddenly he opens his eyes, and he knows he's dreaming. He knows because his wrist doesn't hurt and his legs and feet can move. He pushes himself to his feet, rolling onto his stomach and gingerly putting weight on his wrists, then his knees, and then finally rolling onto his feet. They bear his weight easily and Rick grins, looking at his hands and flexing his fingers experimentally.

He raises his head when he hears a horse neighing. He walks outside and sees a pale, ghostly horse standing on the other side of the field. Death is on its back, his black cloak a heavy swirl of something darker than the void of space between stars. Rick looks at him and feels cold. In his hands is his scythe, the blade gleaming and curved like a crescent moon over his head.

Rick takes a step towards him and the horse neighs again, pawing the ground in something like aggression. Rick hesitates, and goes to his knees instead.

"I need help," he says, his hands resting in his lap.

Death cocks his head to one side, and the pale horse tosses its head and snorts, pawing the ground again. Then it steps forward, and then back, front hooves drumming against the ground in a nervous, antsy beat that makes Rick feel anxious, but he doesn't move.

 _Help?_ Death repeats. His horse rears up just a little, kicking at the air, ears back. _What is it you need help with?_

"I can't walk," Rick says, holding out his hands. "I can't…my right hand's all screwed up. And I don't know where to go next." Death's horse lets out a heavy snort. It looks…sweaty, and sick, and Rick frowns. He has never seen Death's horse sweat before. It's making the horse's hair look pink. The horse tosses its head, reins snapping, heavy and gold against its neck, and Rick stands.

The horses' eyes flash red and Rick suddenly sees, behind the arcing silver of the scythe, a golden crown. He can't see the skull under the hood but he knows without a shadow of a doubt that it isn't a skull he would see if the hood was pulled back.

"Yes, Rick," War says, the white bleeding off of his horse as it rears up and starts to advance. "I'd say you were in _desperate_ need of help."

Rick stumbles back and lets out a sharp cry as his ankles suddenly give out, weak and snapping under his weight. He must be nearing wakefulness but he doesn't feel close enough to snap awake yet. He can hear the snarls and growls of War's dogs. Abruptly War's horse rears up, whinnying shrilly, and starts to charge.

Rick rolls onto his side, one hand braced for the blow he knows is coming even though he's sure it won't do anything, when he hears another animal sound. It's another horse, similarly dirty but this time with something Earthen, mud and grass and hay. It slams into War's horse mid-charge, sending the animal careening off-course and into the darkness of the other side of the field.

War lets out a war cry and slashes at the second horse, at the height of its shoulder and the second animal stumbles and falls, head tossing wildly and tail thrashing. There is no rider and no tack on the second horse – it is as free and wild as the summer breeze, as the clouds. Rick can't stare for too long since War has looped around and makes another charge at him. He rolls over and searches blindly for something in the grass to fight with – this is a dream, after all, right? Weapons always show up when they're needed.

He finds a weapon, his fingers gripping onto the smooth wood of a spear-like object, and he lifts it over his head as War's horse leaps for him. He closes his eyes and braces himself and holds the spear upright – only it's not a spear, but Death's scythe, and the arc of the blade pierces the animal's hide and Rick feels the weight of it slam against his body. He feels something hot and wet touch his hands and face. It's blood.

He gasps and opens his eyes and looks into the dead, white eyes of a walker as it grabs for him, sinking down slowly on the wooden stake Rick had grabbed with his good hand. He didn't get it through the head so it's still reaching for him, grabbing at his face and clothes as it sinks slowly down. It's hissing and snarling and wild on top of him and Rick grits his teeth, pain ricocheting through his whole body as he tries to fight the thing off.

He hears the near-silent _snap_ of a string and then sees bright green and yellow arrow fletching appear about two inches out of the walkers skull as it goes still with a final, heavy groan. Rick turns his head so see Daryl lowering his crossbow and then the man is running for him. He hauls the walker and the stake away from Rick and pulls him upright, shaking him harshly.

"What the _fuck_ do you think yer _doin_ '?" he demands, his fists clenching tightly in Rick's shirt like if he lets go for even a second he'll beat Rick bloody. His cheeks are red and his eyes are wild with fear and he shakes Rick again. It hurts, Rick's wrist and legs protesting the action violently.

Rick raises a weak hand and rests it against Daryl's arm and Daryl suddenly goes still, not exactly calmed under Rick's touch but forced into stasis. "I'm sorry," he says. "I was dreamin'."

He looks around – they're about forty feet from the lean-to, just shy of the fence. Rick can see Beth's horse on the other side of the field, cantering up and down the end of it as though spooked, whinnying shrilly. Rick turns his head a little more and sees the second horse – _his_ horse – standing calmly, regarding him.

His eyes widen when he sees the blood on the animal's flank. He whistles at the horse's ears prick up and it walks towards him with its head low, and Daryl lets him go for a moment as the horse approaches.

"Oh…" Rick's hand is shaking as he touches the raw, ugly-red bite mark on the horse's flank. His breathing is suddenly unsteady. " _Fuck_."

He can't move, and then Daryl is grabbing his hand in both of his and turns Rick back to look at him. Daryl is kneeling over one of Rick's limp legs, his hair a mess from sleeping on the flood, caked with mud and sweat. Rick can feel Daryl's heartbeat still racing in his hands where he touches Rick's sensitive skin, his bruised and sore wrist. Or maybe that's just Rick himself.

Daryl presses his lips together and looks at the horse, who regards them as calmly as ever. "Animals don't turn," he says. "They can't, or we'd be up to our asses in walker dogs right now. He'll be okay."

Rick lets out a shaky breath, and he hadn't even realized he'd been holding his breath until he abruptly lets it out. He feels like he's about to cry. "He saved my life," Rick says, and then looks back to the horse. "Again."

Daryl nods, and then there's a small, silent moment where he looks at the horse, and then holds out his hand. The horse pricks his ears forward and puts his muzzle in Daryl's hand, snorting softly. Daryl grunts. "Polite fucker, ain't he?" he asks, wiping his hand on the grass.

"We should name him," Rick says.

Daryl shakes his head. "Not a good idea," he says. "Just in case."

"Don't care," Rick replies. "I wanna name him. He deserves a name, and I can't just keep callin' him 'Troublemaker'."

Daryl raises an eyebrow. "Why not?" he asks, and nods to the horse. "Seems like a good name for 'im."

The horse looks at Rick and blinks, slowly. Rick smiles and gently pets the horse's cheek. "Okay," he says. Then Daryl huffs and pushes himself to his feet.

"Get up," Daryl says, holding out his left hand for Rick to put his left into and let Daryl haul him to his feet. Rick looks at him for a moment, and then down at himself. "Rick, you walked outta that lean-to. Somehow, you did. And they'll've seen it, I bet. You gotta walk. I know you can."

Rick shakes his head and looks up at Daryl helplessly. "I _can't_."

Daryl bites his lower lip and looks at Rick for a moment, before he sighs and goes to his knees in front of Rick. He reaches out and gently touches Rick's chest, then his neck, one hand gently brushing through his hair. "Rick," he says quietly. "I'm right here. Won't let ya fall. C'mon. Just try and walk for me."

Rick licks his lips, looking down at the grass where it pokes up between the fingers of his good hand. He twists his hand in it absently, ripping up the thick strands, and lets the light breeze blow the grass away. He closes his eyes and shakes his head. He can't. He can't just get up and _walk_ – Daryl isn't, after all, capable of performing miracles, even something as simple as getting Rick's brain to acknowledge the truth of its own abilities. He _knows_ there's nothing wrong with his legs. He knows this because Daryl has told him and he trusts Daryl's judgement. There's no swelling, no bruising, no real tenderness in terms of outside touching.

It just hurts, and maybe this is how War tends to get him – after all, how many wars were never started because one side was just so overwhelmingly weak? What option would there be to just settle, mingle, accept the new regime and try and live on?

Rick grits his teeth, fingers clenching. _No_. He imagines a man standing before him, sword in hard, clad in black armor with red around his neck and in his eyes. He won't accept that. He _can't_ accept that. There are no deals with War – there is no bargaining, no arrangements, there are no heard cries for help. There is survival and conquering and those who win get to write their history.

He pulls one leg towards him and Daryl pushes himself to his feet, holding his hand out. Rick places his hand on Daryl's forearm and grips tight, gritting his teeth when Daryl's fingers lock into place around his wrist.

He manages to get to his knees, hanging heavily off Daryl's arm as he sucks in a breath and does his best not to pass out. Sweat starts beading at his hairline and runs down the back of his neck and his vision is starting to go red at the edges from the pain, but he forces himself through it. His injured wrist throbs in time with his pounding heartbeat as he curls the toes of one foot underneath him and drags it forward so that he's on one knee.

"That's it, Rick," Daryl says, leaning in, arm straining with the effort of holding Rick up. He fists his other hand in the back of Rick's shirt and holds him steady as he Rick breathes out a heavy, pained-sounding whine and gets his other foot underneath him. Rick grabs unsteady as Daryl's shoulders and leans on him to the point where Daryl might as well be carrying him, but he's _up_. He can feel his feet planted flat against the floor.

Daryl lets out a soft whistle and Rick hears Troublemaker give a soft snort and walk forward and Rick closes his eyes, feeling blindly until he finds the matted mess of mane with his fingers. He flings an arm over the animal's withers, hand still tightly fisted and grabbing his mane, and leans a little away from Daryl so that he's not weighing so heavily on the man anymore.

Both of them are breathing hard when Rick opens his eyes. His injured arm is still clinging to Daryl, his left one thrown over the horse, but he's _standing._ He lets out a breathless, incredulous laugh, looking down at his feet, and Daryl grins at him.

"Faker," Daryl says, affectionate and teasing, and Rick huffs a pained, breathless laugh. He doesn't think he can stand on his own, but the horse seems perfectly fine bearing his weight for now and is standing as a warm, solid brace for him.

Rick's fingers twitch, unable to grab Daryl more steadily since his hand is so badly hurt, but he tugs weakly and lets out a quiet, wanting sound, and Daryl seems to understand. He takes a step forward, closing the distance, and laces his fingers through Rick's hair and kisses him. Rick gasps, robbed of what little breath he still has, hand clutching weakly at Daryl's clothing as Daryl pets and kisses him again, a quiet press of their lips together to make Rick's heart beat wildly for an entirely different reason.

When Daryl pulls away – but he doesn’t go far, not when Rick makes another pathetic, desperate sound that pleads for Daryl to stay close – they're both breathless and Daryl's cheeks are pink, his eyes bright and shining like a sunlit ocean. Rick leans his forehead against Daryl's and sighs.

"Thank you," he says, because he can't think of anything else to say that means as much. Daryl won't let him say anything else, anyway.

Daryl smiles, and his fingertips gently brush down Rick's cheek in a light touch.

Rick jumps as, suddenly, a gunshot rings out. He instinctively looks towards the house but doesn't see anyone poised to shoot, nor does he see anything to shoot at. Even as he watches, Maggie, Beth and Herschel hurry out of the front and stand on the porch. Maggie looks accusingly in their direction but quickly shifts her gaze farther out, determining that they aren't the source. There is a line of trees beyond the field where Beth's horse is still edging, trotting nervously to and fro. Rick feels like the sound came from there.

"Where's Merle?" he asks Daryl.

Daryl runs a hand through his hair and shakes his head. "He went to go sleep in the car," he replies, and Rick nods and looks towards the police cruiser. He doesn't see Merle inside but decides not to mention it. He doesn't want Daryl to worry. "We didn't have shotguns," Daryl says.

"There's one standard issue in every cruiser," Rick says. "We had one."

Daryl shakes his head. "Ain't ours," he says. He looks back at Herschel, Maggie and Beth, who are still standing on the porch. Patricia has joined them, as well as a younger, lanky boy Rick doesn't remember meeting before. "Ain't theirs either, don't think."

They wait in silence, and after a few minutes Maggie seems to huff an annoyed breath and jogs down the porch steps, striding quickly towards Rick and Daryl. "That sound'll draw walkers," she says icily, her bottle-green eyes burning. "You two should get to the lean-to and pray it don't."

"We can handle ourselves," Daryl says.

Maggie clenches her jaw, her narrowed eyes landing on Rick. "Good to see you on your feet," she says, and Rick can't tell if she's saying it in accusation or genuine relief. After all, the sooner they're better, the sooner they leave. The Greenes seem like the kind of people to take care of their own but are very selective about who 'their own' is.

Before any of them can say anything else, Rick hears a man shouting. He frowns, lifting his head. He feels like he _recognizes_ that voice. But that's impossible – it couldn't be…

_"Clear the way!"_

A man comes bursting out of the trees, carrying something in his arms like an offering. There's blood on his face and hands and chest and soaked into the center of the bundle he's carrying. Rick squints, trying to see as the man alters his course and mans a bee-line for the house, as though now that he's seen it, there's nothing else in the world that matters more than getting to it. A few seconds after him comes another man, shining with sweat and with dark hair; a woman with long dreads and dark skin; a heavyset man with a baseball cap and a sweat stained-brown shirt.

The first man sprints past the field, not around the corner where Rick and Daryl are as that one is by the road, but past the police cruiser, and Rick's eyes widen. "No fucking way," Daryl whispers, and then Rick sees that not only is the man carrying a bundle, but that bundle is distinctly child-sized and shaped, and Rick can see, dangling from his neck, the old Sherriff's hat that Rick had given him months ago.

" _Carl_!" he yells, but Shane doesn't hear him or doesn't dare slow down as he bolts for the house. Rick grips Troublemaker's mane tightly and grits his teeth, limping as quickly as he can towards the fence line. The horse follows at a slow walk until Rick can brace himself against it. He makes it there just as the other three run past and the first man slows on seeing Rick, dark eyes wide. "Glenn," Rick breathes, then looks to the other two. "Michonne. Otis. What the _fuck_ happened?"

"It was an accident!" Otis cries, holding what Rick sees is a shotgun in his shaking, trembling hands. Rick blinks and looks down, red lining the edge of his vision for a reason entirely different than pain. Or maybe it is pain.

"You shot my _son_ ," Rick hisses, and if he could stand on his own two feet he's not sure he wouldn't lunge at Otis and beat his face in with the butt of his gun just on principle. He still might try. His legs feels cold, like he can't feel anything, his arm burns with ice and itches for his weapon. " _How did this happen_."

"Herschel can fix 'im up," Otis says, voice weak and whimpering. "He'll be good as new."

Rick's eyes flash to Glenn, narrowed and burning. "If he needs blood, I got it," he says. Glenn's eyes widen and he nods. "We're the same blood type. Make sure Herschel knows."

Glenn nods again and bolts, understanding the implied order without Rick having to say it. Rick breathes out, closing his eyes, and he's unable to hold himself upright. He falls to his knees and against the fence, breathing in and out shakily. His head is spinning. He can't breathe.

"Rick! Rick, look at me," Daryl says, grabbing Rick's face and holding him still until Rick blinks and his eyes focus. "Carl's gonna be fine, you get me? He'll be just fine."

Rick swallows harshly, shaking his head. "Just…just make sure he's okay," he begs, reaching out and grabbing Daryl's forearm weakly. "Please. Go. Make sure he's okay."

"I will," Daryl says, and then he climbs over the fence and runs towards the house, leaving Rick, Otis and Michonne alone. Rick is burning with questions, about how and why Michonne is with them, where are the rest of the group? _How the fuck did Carl get shot?_ But he keeps silent for now. Michonne, it seems, is perfectly content to stand with him until they hear news back. After a while Otis leaves, either sensing the bubbling, acidic anger in Rick, or called away to do something else.

Rick doesn't care. He closes his eyes and conjures up the image of Death. He feels the cold in his fingertips and his breath mists in the air. When he opens his eyes Death is there, grinning down at him.

"Please," Rick says. "Don't take him, too."

Death is silent, but stands with him and doesn't go into the house, and Rick figures that's all the answer he needs.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was wayyyy too drunk last night to trust what I wrote, so I apologize for the delay. Enjoy!

Rick remembers the day that Carl was born. Lori had gone into labor while he and Shane were on a stakeout, and had needed to wait for Sullivan to come and relieve him and take over with Shane while Rick rushed to the hospital to be there. Carl's birth had been relatively quick (although he was sure Lori wouldn't agree with him, the way she was screaming) and his son had been born a mere forty-three minutes after Lori had been fully dilated and started pushing. Rick remembers holding her hand through it, feeling the power in her delicate fingers as they laced between his. He remembers her cussing him to the ninth layer of Hell and back.

By the time Carl had been cleaned off and brought back to them, Shane had gotten his own replacement and come to the hospital with celebratory beer and cigars that Rick would later join him on the room to smoke while Lori slept. They hadn't known the sex of the child before Carl was born. Lori had wanted to have it be a surprise, even though her mother was insistent that "the way you're carrying, it's definitely a girl, dear. I remember how you were".

Rick remembers seeing them sleeping together a few hours later, Carl curled up in a fluffy blue blanket against Lori's chest, mouth split wide open in a yawn. Lori had been sweaty, red-faced, her hair sticking out in little curls and wisps from her ponytail, but absolutely glowing with pride. And she'd let Rick hold him and Carl had woken up and stared at him with big, glassy blue eyes and Rick isn't ashamed to admit he cried like a Goddamn baby, holding his son for the first time. Shane had come in the room later and not even given him shit about it, and his eyes were wet when Rick handed Carl off and said "Here, man, hold your Godson."

He feels that way now. Daryl, Merle and Glenn had helped him into the house and up the stairs to the spare bedroom where they had put carl. The bed was a mess of blood but Herschel had managed to sew up the wound and stop the bleeding. Daryl and Glenn had immediately left – apparently there was a medical supply store nearby and they should be able to get what was needed to set up a blood transfusion. Herschel and Maggie had gone with them.

Which left Shane and Merle with the Greenes and Rick. Merle is downstairs, hopefully keeping his head down and his big mouth shut. Rick isn't much of a praying man but he sends out a prayer to any God or angel that might be listening that Merle doesn't fuck up their chances of staying here. Rick is curled up in the bed next to Carl, watching his thin chest move up and down in slow breaths.

He just wishes Carl would open his eyes. Just look at him, even if it's unfocused and hazy like a baby does. Babies can't see very far when they're first born – he remembers reading that in one of Lori's books. Their eyesight gets better as they grow and become accustomed to being in the world. If only Carl would just _look_ at him…

Shane comes in and Rick sucks in a shuddery breath, his eyes wet, his hand curling gently around his son's. "How did…how did this happen?" he asks.

Shane bites his tongue, runs a hand through his hair. "We were out in the woods," he says. "I was showin' Carl how ta…fuck, I don't know. He was upset 'bout you leavin' and I was just tryin' ta talk to him, and then we see this dear, and I point it out and he's walkin' towards it. Thing's not even scared of us. Got bigger things to be scared of, I guess." He huffs a broken-sounding laugh and rubs his hand over his mouth. "He's almost at the thing and then I just hear this _shot_ and he just…he just fuckin' drops. Was that Otis guy, tryin' to get the deer. And he's just bleedin' out and this guy tells us he's got a doctor at his house so I just picked him up and ran. Glenn and Michonne were around and followed, I guess."

Rick presses his lips together and squeezes Carl's hand. There's no response. Had this been what it was like, when he was in his coma? How many times had Lori and Shane and Carl come to his bedside and Carl would sit, teary-eyed, squeezing his hand, just begging him to wake up?

"What happened?" he asks, lifting his eyes. "Did you go to that refugee camp?"

Shane nods. "Jacqui and her family wanted to go so we just decided to follow. You know, no sense stickin' around when there's a chance of being in a bigger group, you know?" Rick nods. He had expected as much, anyway. "We packed up and left and stayed with them. Michonne's got a kid."

Rick blinks. "How old?"

"Three or four, I'd guess."

Such a tender age. He might be one of the only children who will grow up to have no memories of the world as it was before. Rick tries to think back to when Carl was that age – he had just been learning to have conversations, at that age where about half of what he said made any sense, and the rest was so ridiculous it had made him and Lori weak with laughter. He smiles, but it's a strained thing.

"Daryl and Glenn will find what we need."

Rick closes his eyes and nods. "I know," he says. He trusts Daryl with everything, after all, especially something as dear to him as his child. Carl is the one thing Rick would defend to the death, and the one thing he demanded he keep when he committed his crimes. Carl is his son and his legacy and if Rick can't keep him alive then what's the point of even saving the world?

Shane is silent for a moment and when Rick opens his eyes, he sees Shane looking him over with a frown on his face. "What happened to you guys?" he asks. "Did you…do what you needed to do?" His eyes keep moving to Carl, as though afraid he might wake up and hear that his father murdered another man.

Rick sighs. "Do you really want to talk about that?"

"You've been gone for two weeks, man. There's a lot we gotta talk about."

Rick frowns, leaning up on his good arm to regard Shane. That…can't be right. They've been separated for _days_ , at the most – maybe three or four. "What?" he asks, and then shakes his head. "No, we haven't. We left…it's only been a coupl'a days."

Shane looks at him for a moment, before he takes another step into the room and closes the door behind him. "Rick," he says, slowly, like one might approach a crazy man with a knife, or speak to a child in the middle of a tantrum. "Y'all left almost two weeks ago. Honestly I thought you might be…"

 _Dead_.

Rick shakes his head again. No. No, he can't have been gone for… Where did he lose that time? Does Daryl know? He thinks back to the nights he's aware of, to the days they spent wandering, and the time they spent here. That can't be right. That _isn't_ right.

Abruptly Merle's antsy behavior starts to make more sense. Maggie and Herschel's cold behavior towards them…"It's been two weeks?" he asks, and Shane nods, trapping his tongue between his lips for another moment. "Oh my God…" He lays back down on the bed and covers his eyes with a hand. "I didn't… I swear, Shane, I thought we'd only been gone a couple days. We were driving back and met Maggie and Beth – Herschel's daughters – on the road, and then we came here, and -."

"Hey, it doesn't matter now," Shane says gently, reaching out for him but making no move to come closer. "What matters is you guys are alive, and so are we."

But it does matter. When will Rick wake up and find that a year has passed and he still has done nothing? Will War's strength merely grow, and thicken, and spread like a wildfire until they all burn to death within it?

"Where's Lori?" he asks. "And the others?"

"Back at the camp," Shane says. "I gotta go tell 'em what happened. Where we are."

Rick nods. "I'll…be here," he replies weakly, and Shane nods. His eyes go to Carl one more time, and then back to Rick, and Rick licks his lips. "Shane, I'm sorry," he says. "I'm sorry this happened. I'm sorry I – I pulled a fuckin' _gun_ on you, man."

Shane nods, once. He won't forgive Rick for that, Rick is sure. But there are far worse things Rick could have done, _might_ have done had no one else been around. His fingers curl, thinking about what it might have been like to pull the trigger and put Shane down in front of everyone. He thinks about how it felt when he shot Daryl – or James, with Daryl's skin, he now knows it was. His hands start to shake.

"Daryl and Glenn will be back soon," Shane whispers. "I can wait with ya."

"No," Rick says, shaking his head. He puts his hand back in Carl's and curls up a little tighter, closing his eyes. "No. I need to be alone with my son. Please."

"Alright, brother," Shane says. He walks around to the other side of the bed and squeezes Rick's shoulder. "I'll be back." And then he leaves, closing the door with a quiet 'click' behind him, and Rick grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes tightly shut and does his best not to sob.

 

 

 

Rick isn't sure how long he stays there, just listening to Carl's breathing. His hand starts to hurt from squeezing Carl's hand so tightly, and while his legs ache from being curled up so tightly and his wrist throbs with pain, he can't bring himself to move. No one comes to them to bring him food. Herschel visits once to change Carl's bandages and Rick watches him do it and wonders how, like him, his son could have been shot just a little shy of his lungs. Will Carl be like this for months, just as he was?

"Thank you," Rick says to Herschel when he changes the bandages and puts Carl's bloody clothes back in place to hide them. Herschel regards him with a flat expression. "I know you don't know me, and you don't know him, but I can't…if he makes it outta this, I'll owe you for life."

"Perhaps you could repay me by leaving, when it's done," Herschel says coolly. Then he sighs. "That Glenn fellow told me a little bit about you, Rick. Told me Carl is your son."

Rick nods. "His mother's in a refugee camp a little ways from here," he says. "Shane's his Godfather, and her husband now. He took care of 'em when I was in my coma, and then…afterwards."

Herschel nods. "That's a good man," he says, and Rick can't help but agree. Shane _is_ a good man and Rick almost killed him like he killed three other probably good men. And a woman. And two others who were not good men but were definitely men at some point in their lives. And because of him Daryl is a murderer too. How many more of them will fall, led to the destruction of their souls because of his quest?

"Glenn also told me how you saved him and his friends, in Atlanta," he says, and Rick isn't sure what he did could qualify as saving them. More like they saved him, from wandering in his vision-induced stupor and getting himself killed in Famine's jaws. "I believe redemption is possible for everyone, Rick, even you, but you can't keep going on as you have."

Rick looks at Herschel for a long moment. The man's eyes are dark, the color of the ocean after rain. They aren't as myriad in blue as Daryl's, and not nearly as expressive, but Rick feels like he can read the emotions there plain as day.

"Did Glenn tell you anything about…about anything else?" Rick asks.

Herschel shakes his head. "If there's anything else to be said, I believe it's best that I hear it from you."

Rick nods. "I promised I'd answer you honestly," he says. "Anything you ask me. I haven't lied to you."

Herschel nods, but doesn't speak.

Rick sighs and looks to his son. He is sitting upright now, out of the way for Herschel to work. He pushes some of Carl's hair back from his face. "In my coma, I would wake up at night," he says, and keeps his eyes on Carl's face so that he doesn't lose focus of what he wants to say. "Death was standing at my door, and I would see him moving around the hospital. The people he touched passed away the next day, and every night I would think ' _Tonight, this is the night he comes for me_ ', but he never did. He would go on and then one night I followed him and I spoke to him. And he told me about…all this. He told me the apocalypse was coming."

Rick swallows, hard. "I had no reason not to believe him. I would hear patients coding after he touched them. In my coma, I could hear. I could hear when Lori – my wife, Carl's mother – visited me. I was… _aware_ , some of the time. And when I woke up I knew it was coming, because Death had told me. And he told me how I could stop it."

"By killing people," Herschel says flatly.

Rick shakes his head. "They aren't people," Rick says. "Not really. They're…vessels, for the horsemen. Like the walkers."

"They're still people," Herschel says, his voice getting a little harsh, gaining an edge like the blade of a sword. Rick lifts his eyes and meets the other man's. They're darker now; stormy. "My wife is in that barn. You knew about the barn. How?"

"I had visions," Rick says. "I've had them about a few things. Like…like this place. Not a lot, and it's fuzzy. And sometimes the visions don't make sense, but I still have them. I knew your daughters before I even met them. I knew about the barn but I didn't know if I'd ever actually see it." He looks away. "I'm changing the future. Some of it, anyway."

"I don't believe you," Herschel says. "It is not in the nature of man to be able to change destiny."

"I'm not a man anymore," Rick confesses. "Sometimes….Death still visits me. He came to me the day before it happened and told me it would happen. And then it did. And he comes to me and tells me where to go, sometimes, and I see him touching people and I see that they might die. I'm trying to _save_ people, I am."

Herschel is silent for another moment, and Rick huffs a weak, hurt laugh. "Daryl didn't believe me either. Even when it was happening. He was with me when it happened. He didn't believe me until we met Famine."

"So you've seen these horsemen," Herschel murmurs.

Rick nods. "I have dreams of them. They speak to me around an open fire, but since I've been awake and moving they've tried to attack me. They tried to come after me. Famine and Pestilence are gone. After War it's…it's over."

"That's one horseman too short, Rick."

Rick looks at Herschel and bites his lip. "I said these people aren't men anymore when they become vessels," he says slowly, meaningfully. "And I'm not a man anymore either."

Herschel blinks at him, and Rick sees the exact moment that he understands what Rick is saying. He straightens up and sucks in a breath, his fingers curling until his knuckles turn white on his knees. "So you mean to say that…"

"After War, it's just me," Rick says. "I know this. A sacrifice must be made." He sighs and pushes another strand of hair from Carl's face. It's growing long now. He wonders how long it gets before it starts to annoy him, like Daryl's does sometimes. They all need a haircut. The thought makes him smile. "When that times comes, I'm ready."

"I've heard enough," Herschel says, and stands. "When your friends come back, I will return to set up the blood transfusion. As soon as you both are able, I want you off my farm. That is my final word on the matter."

Rick nods, letting out a soft breath. "Can I take Troublemaker with me?" he asks. "I led that horse to Atlanta, and he keeps finding me. I think he's meant to be mine."

"Suit yourself," Herschel says, his hand on the door. "Though I think it's time for you to have a good, long think about what is yours and what is not in this world, and if continuing on like this is the best for everyone you claim to love."

Rick turns his face away.

"You are still a man, Rick. You're blood and flesh and bone just like the rest of us."

Rick smiles and Herschel lets himself out. Rick gingerly lays back down to curl up around his son and tries not to think about how much time might be passing outside of this windowless room, how many if he goes to sleep and wakes up it will be another two weeks, or a month, or a year, and Carl might have died by his side and his wrist will be healed and War will have taken over the world.

 

 

 

Rick wakes to a commotion and noise coming from downstairs. He hears Herschel and Daryl's voices and sits up just in time for Herschel, Maggie, Daryl and Glenn to come into the room, a bag in hang brimming with plastic-wrapped medical supplies.

"You found some," Rick breathes, smiling as Daryl comes around to stand beside him and help him to a sitting position. Daryl smiles and rests his forehead against Rick's hair, just for a moment, before he pushes himself into the corner of the room to give Maggie and Herschel room to work.

Rick remembers the feeling of needles and IVs being stuck in him. When he'd woken from his coma he had yanked the things out in a panicked frenzy, shouting for his family until orderlies had rushed in to sedate him and call Lori to let her know he'd woken up. At the time, Rick hadn't known that he would have woken up to a world still whole, and hadn't been able to relax for a long time until he'd seen their faces, tired but happy, rushing towards him.

They push his arm until it's bare and raised and hook a line into Carl's arm. A little blood comes out when Maggie does this and Rick winces, but holds still as Herschel does the same with him. They connect everything up and soon there's a tube of blood between him and his son, replenishing what Carl has lost.

"You ate?" Daryl asks, and Rick shakes his head. He doesn't miss the glare Daryl sends to the back of Maggie's head before he reaches into his pocket for another granola bar and unwraps it. Rick's good arm is being used for the blood transfusion and he of course can't use his other hand so Daryl holds it to his mouth while Rick takes a bite, already starting to feel lightheaded.

His stomach clenches sharply, reminding him how little he's eaten in the last few days – or maybe two weeks. He waits until Maggie and Herschel are gone, only Glenn and Daryl remaining, to ask; "Glenn." The man looks at him with wide eyes. "How long has it been since we saw each other?"

Glenn swallows. "'Bout two weeks," he says, and Rick looks to Daryl, who nods.

"Told me that too on the run," Daryl bites out, taking a bite of the granola bar before handing the rest to Rick, who eats it in one bite. "Didn't believe it at first, but the days are shorter, the air's colder." He shrugs one shoulder. "Thought it had only been a few days."

"So did I," Rick whispers. "Do you think Pestilence -?"

"Shit." Daryl shakes his head. "I don't know what to think anymore."

Glenn presses his lips together and looks at Carl. "How's he doin'?" he asks.

"Guess what you'd expect," Rick replies. "Hope he doesn't follow like me. When I got shot I was out for months."

"Probably for the best he sleeps," Daryl says. "World ain't exactly friendly right now."

"Shane told me you guys hooked up with Michonne's camp," he says. "Where is she?"

"Think she went with Shane, back to the group?" Glenn hazards, and Rick nods. "That makes sense. Her kid's there – Shane tell you she has a kid?" Rick nods again. "Crazy shit, man. Lori's probably sick with worry, too." Glenn sighs. "We lost Amy."

"Amy?" Andrea's sister. Rick thinks about the shadow that moved behind her and touched her neck. "How?"

"On the road. Walker came outta nowhere. Andrea wouldn't leave her at first. Then she turned and we had to put her down." Glenn's face is pale, his eyes sad. "I put her down."

"I'm sorry you had to do that," Rick says. After all, he is no stranger to death, or murder, or playing the bad guy. "Everyone else okay?"

Glenn nods.

"Good," Rick says, closing his eyes and leaning his head against the headboard. "That's good."

"That camp will probably move soon," Daryl says. "Ain't safe where they are. You said that."

Rick nods, and thinks about the people they might lose. "Herschel wants us gone soon as Carl can move," he says, looking to Daryl. His face is pale and he looks tired. Rick can't remember the last time he got a good night's sleep, bereft of Rick's nightmares. Maybe the night they first kissed, if then.

He can't look away from Daryl, too caught in the storm of the man's eyes. After a moment Glenn clears his throat and gets up. "I'll leave you guys be," he says, "go see if maybe there's something we can do for the Greenes, for what they did for Carl."

"Thank you, Glenn," Rick says, warm with gratitude, and Glenn smiles and nods at both of them before he leaves the room. As soon as he's gone Daryl slinks from the corner of the room and stands at Rick's side on the bed. "Two weeks," Rick murmurs lowly. "You really didn't know?"

Daryl shakes his head and gently takes Rick's hand, wrapping his fingers between Rick's. Rick squeezes gently, careful not to loosen or unhook the IV in his arm, and kisses Daryl's fingers. "How your legs feelin'?" he asks.

Rick shakes his head. "I don't want to talk about that," he says.

"I think we gotta talk about somethin'," Daryl replies. "I'm all for stoic silences too, but I feel like…" Daryl sighs, biting his lower lip. "I hate leavin' you alone."

"'Cause you think I might do somethin' stupid?"

"That's a reason," Daryl says, smirking a little. "But you know that ain't all of it."

"I know," Rick says. He presses the back of Daryl's hand to his mouth and breathes deeply, closing his eyes. "Thank you. For Carl. For knowin'…"

"He's your kid," Daryl says, shrugging.

"Still. Thank you."

"Ain't nothin'," Daryl murmurs. He brushes his free hand through Rick's hair and sighs. "You know I got your back."

Rick manages a weak smile, and turns his face up to look at Daryl. Daryl regards him for a moment, before he leans down, cupping Rick's neck, and presses a kiss to his forehead. Rick feels a tremor run through him that might be sorrow and might be elation, he can never tell when Daryl is touching him.

"We'll figure it out," Daryl promises, and Rick doesn't doubt him for a moment. He licks his lips and whistles softly and feels Daryl's smile against his skin. "Yeah. Me too."


	30. Chapter 30

Rick loses track of time in that windowless room. Bedrooms should have windows – even the one he'd had in the facility had had one, high up but just large enough to let the light in and let him know vaguely what time of day it was.

Daryl stays by his side, only leaving to get food and to relieve himself in the guest bathroom. Rick doesn't move. He doesn't feel things like hunger until Daryl feels him, and his body seems intent on saving whatever he eats because he never feels like going to the bathroom though Daryl asks him if he needs help getting there, too. He just wants to lay down and sleep, and wake up to his son alive and awake and whole, and Daryl by his side – always by his side. Daryl sleeps on the floor by the bed and Rick gets the distinct impression that he only does this because the bed won't fit all of them. Whenever Daryl wakes the first thing he does is reach out to touch Rick as though assuring himself that Rick hasn't disappeared while he slept.

It's a legitimate concern. Rick fights off sleep for the most part, terrified to the bone that he will have a dream and go wandering and get himself or someone else hurt. Besides, with the IV still attached, he won't risk rising and dislodging it.

After a while he starts to feel weak and Carl's face is regaining some color. He clears his throat and rolls onto his back so that he can catch Daryl's eye. "Herschel should probably come remove this," he says, and Daryl nods and leaves without a word. A few minutes later he comes back with Herschel, who pulls up a small stool and sets about  examining Carl's stitches, his pallor, and whatever else a doctor might look for in a gunshot victim.

"Bleeding's stopped," he says, though Rick would hope that is the case. He lifts up Carl's shirt and the bandages, pressing his lips together. "Doesn't look like there's any swelling or internal bruising. I think it's safe to take out that IV."

Rick nods and sits still as Herschel unhooks everything, before placing a second piece of gauze and taping it over the entry wound on Carl's arm, and then he hands a piece to Rick to do the same. Rick folds it and curls his arm up so that the wound will scab over more quickly.

"Your friends are staying out in the lean-to," Herschel tells them, and Rick assumes that means Glenn and Merle, since Shane would presumably still be at the refugee camp with everyone else. He nods, accepting that news. "I told them the same thing I told you – when the boy's good and ready, you all should move on."

Daryl shifts his weight, folding his arms over his chest. "C'mon, man," he says, his voice a mix between annoyed and plaintive. "You gotta know it's better if the living sticks together in this kinda world. We have people, and weapons. We can protect ourselves here."

"We don't need much protecting," Herschel says coolly.

"You've been lucky," Daryl replies, harsher now. "You don't know what it's like out there. You got this nice Eden, good for you. It'll fall."

"Daryl," Rick warns, reaching out a hand to put it on Daryl's side. Daryl shifts his weight again and lets out another rough, angry sound. Rick turns back to Herschel. "Thank you again," he says, and Herschel nods and gets up and leaves the room.

"You know I'm right," Daryl says darkly.

Rick nods and lets his hand fall. "I do," he says, voice quiet. "But arguing with him isn't going to change his mind." Daryl shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair, letting out another annoyed noise. Rick looks up at him and bites his lower lip.

They remain quiet, and then Rick cocks his head as he hears singing coming from downstairs. It's a woman's voice, high and young, and he sighs and smiles. "You remember when Jack would sing?" he asks, thinking of the giant, angry man that had so often confronted him and wanted to start fights. Daryl breathes out heavily from his nose and nods. "He had a nice voice."

"I think that's Beth," Daryl says quietly, hesitating as though expecting Rick to have a negative reaction to that. Rick frowns. "She talks to me, y'know. Asks me about my life. About you."

Rick thinks he might hear what Daryl won't say. "What kinda stuff she ask about?"

"Just told ya," Daryl replies, and then huffs again and slides down the wall until he's sitting. He runs both hands through his hair again and shakes his head. "Rick, I don't know how long I can…"

Rick frowns. He wants to reach out and touch Daryl but Daryl is sitting too far away.

Daryl looks up, and he looks so lost and young Rick wishes he could leap from the bed and cradle him close like a pup, run his hands through Daryl's hair and kiss him until the sorrow and the fear is all gone from his soul.

"I don't know who War is," Rick says, turning his face away to stare towards the end of the bed. "I'm sorry. For a second I thought…"

"For a second I thought it was easy," Daryl finishes with a nod and a broken huff of laughter. "I mean, it's been less than two months and we already clocked two of the sons of bitches. It's been scary as fuck, but we got 'em, and now I'm thinkin'…now I'm thinkin' it was _too_ easy, you know?"

Rick nods. It's a thought he's been entertaining for a while now. They've been hurt, yes, and starving, and broken, but they've been making it, making _progress_. But now there's nothing – no direction and no idea where to go or how to get there. Merle had been right.

"You haven't been sleepin'," Daryl whispers. "Don't think I didn't notice."

"I'm afraid to sleep," Rick confesses.

"Why?"

"Because what if I don't wake up?" Rick looks back at Daryl, helpless. "What if War kills me in my dreams?"

"You think he could?"

"I don't know what I think anymore," Rick says, and sighs. "Death hasn't come to me since…since Carl got shot. I saw him and I begged him not to take Carl and he didn't but since then he hasn't been here. I don't know what he's thinking. I don't know…"

Abruptly the singing from downstairs cuts off and Rick hears the scrape of a chair abruptly being pushed back, followed by a cry of "Daddy! Come quick!". It's definitely Beth, and Rick tenses up, hissing in pain when his ankles and his wrist give protesting spikes of pain. His legs feel better, almost like he could walk, but he doesn't want to chance it.

"I'll go look," Daryl says quietly, pushing himself to his feet and leaving the room. He leaves the door open and Rick swallows back an anxious whimper. He hates not being able to see Daryl.

Daryl comes back a moment later and Rick thinks he might hear the rumble of a vehicle. "Someone's coming," he says. "Get up."

Rick shakes his head helplessly but Daryl doesn't seem inclined to humor him. He comes around to the bed and Rick swings his legs around so that his feet rest against the floor. His legs feel atrophied, like they did when he first woke up from his coma. He almost collapses against Daryl's chest when he tries to stand and lets out a growl of pain when Daryl hooks his arm under Rick's and hauls him upright.

Rick hears the shrill whinny of a horse.

His legs drag and don't seem to want to work but he manages to keep himself relatively upright with Daryl's help. His broken hand curls limply over Daryl's shoulder and he uses the other to brace himself against the bed and skirt around it, through the door and out onto the landing above the stairs. By the time they reach the bottom he sees a collection of cars pull up outside the Greenes' open front door.

He shakes his head and sighs. "They came back," he says.

They make it out onto the front porch where Patricia is standing, a rifle in her hands but not aimed or ready. Otis, Beth, Maggie and Herschel are walking towards the cars and Rick sees Glenn and Merle coming from the field. Troublemaker is trotting back and forth across the fence, tossing his head wildly.

It's the red Honda, and Glenn's Dodge, and the RV is also there, trundling to a stop behind them. Lori gets out of the Honda, teary-faced and frantic, and she's yelling something at Shane as he gets out the driver-side door. She rushes around the front of the car and Shane catches her, and Rick can see him speaking but can't make out what he's saying.

Maggie runs forward with Otis and the two women start in a fast exchange. Lori's face is red and puffy from  crying, and then she sees Rick and Daryl and her face darkens completely.

He pushes past Shane, Maggie and Otis, and runs to the porch. " _You_ ," she hisses, jabbing a finger in Rick's chest. Fresh tears have welled up in her eyes and are falling freely down her face. "Where is he?"

"Lori." Rick catches her hand, cradling it in as gently as he can manage. He yanks her hand free. "He's okay. I gave him my blood, he looks better. He's gonna be okay."

"To _Hell_ with that," she hisses. "Where the _fuck_ is my son?"

"First door on the left," Daryl mutters. "Upstairs."

She nods and rushes past them and Rick doesn't think to stop her. The Greenes and Shane and Glenn all converge on them at once. Shane is running a hand through his hair and speaking quickly;

"Herschel, I'm sorry, man. I couldn't – she's his mother."

"I understand," Herschel says, although he sounds angry. He looks at Rick with something like suspicion, as though Rick could have orchestrated the whole thing. Truthfully, with what Rick has told him, it's not an unfair thing to think. "I expect you think you'll all move in now, hmm?"

"We'll stay away," Rick says quietly. "Keep to the field. Keep to our own. We won't bother you. Then we'll go."

Herschel nods and walks inside, Beth and Maggie hot on his heels. Patricia and Otis follow them inside and close the front door and Rick finally feels the strength in his legs give out. He falls and Daryl lets out a curse and Shane rushes forward to help him get to a reasonable sitting position on the front porch steps.

"Who's here?" Daryl asks.

"Dale, Andrea, me and Lori," Shane says. "Andrea drove Glenn's car. And…and everyone else is gonna follow."

Rick blinks and looks up at him. "What?" he demands.

Shane spreads his hands out in a helpless gesture. "I told Lori about Carl and she lost her shit. Started screamin'. Drew a crowd. Then she kept goin' on about how it wasn't safe here – you told her that, and they don't even _know_ ya but I guess Michonne got a feelin' about ya, or somethin', 'cause she demanded that they all move. Started a fight. But I guess…some of 'em decided they were gonna come 'cause they felt safer with us."

Rick blinks, wondering how strangers he's never met could choose to follow him – and their group – so easily. But then he remembers it's been two weeks, and two weeks in this world could feel like years. Plenty of time to form strong emotional reliance and bonds. He remembers learning about the psychology of groups, the herd mentality, in the police academy and even more when speaking with the therapists in the facility. They'd been afraid he might _Cuckoo's Nest_ the whole joint. Rick is _charismatic._ That's what they liked to call him. _A natural leader. Unemotional. Does what needs to be done._

That's just a polite way of saying _psychopath._

"Herschel's gonna be pissed," Daryl mutters, and Rick can't help but nod.

"We'll keep to our own, like you said," Shane says, like he's offering a compromise. "Provide for ourselves."

"Don't think that's gonna fly," Daryl replies. "He _really_ don't like Rick."

"Then I'll leave," Rick says, lifting his head and staring out towards the cars, where Glenn and Andrea are deep in conversation with Dale and Merle. He sees Merle laugh and sling an arm across Andrea's shoulders and winces in sympathy, knowing how heavy Merle's arm can be. Andrea seems to bear the weight just fine, though she does give Merle a dirty look that he just grins at. "And whoever wants to follow can follow. S'me he has a problem with. Ain't no reason y'all gotta suffer for it."

"Rick…" Shane looks uneasy, scratching the back of his neck, and he shifts his weight. "Come on, brother. You can't keep talkin' like that."

"Like what?"

"Like leavin's the only answer you got," Shane says, rolling his eyes in exasperation. "Fuck's sake, man, I only just found you again! You're my brother. I can't just keep letting you go like this. And 'sides…what the fuck _happened_ to ya? You look like you can barely stand."

"He got hurt," Daryl says quietly. "Fighting Pestilence."

Shane's eyes widen. "So you did find him."

Rick nods, closing his eyes. His wrist throbs when he thinks about how he'd pulled his gun, putting Doctor Woodmore down for the second and final time. "I couldn't have done it without you and Lori," he says, lifting his head and meeting Shane's eyes. "It was my therapist, at the facility. Doctor Woodmore. He was…he was dead, but…changed."

"Like a walker?" Shane asks.

Rick shakes his head. "He could speak," he says. "And fight. He…" He looks at Daryl. He never told Daryl what Woodmore had promised him if he would agree to stop fighting. He doesn't think he could bear to give Daryl that information. "He made me sick. Real sick. Broke my legs and my hand."

"Fuck," Shane says, rubbing a hand through his hair. Rick thinks he might see, just a spark and then it's gone, a flicker of understanding and acceptance in Shane's eyes. After all, a fight's a fight. Wounds are physical, evidence, _proof_. Maybe Shane is starting to believe him.

The thought doesn't fill him with as much excitement as he thought it would.

Lori opens the front door and steps out, Beth's arm slung around her shoulders and shushing her quietly. "He's asleep," Lori says numbly, and comes forward to stand next to Shane. She wraps her arms tight around his chest and Shane holds her close, pressing his face into her hair. Her shoulders are shaking.

"He's going to be okay," Rick says, and Lori turns to look at him. She wipes her hand across her face and heaves in a shaky breath.

"I believe you," she says, and Rick isn't sure how much she means to say. She turns more fully and takes another deep breath, one hand falling to her stomach and fisting in her loose shirt. Rick forces his eyes not to fall there, knowing that there's a life growing inside of her now. She must be sick with anxiety all the time. Rick remembers how sick she was with Carl, and that isn't even bringing into the equation the world they live in now. He tries not to think about how fragile the life is at this point, how easy it might be to lose it.

He doesn't see a shadow behind her, not yet, but that doesn’t mean he won't. He bites his lip and turns his face away. Daryl is there – he's moved to sit behind Rick, shoulder against one of the porch beams, legs stretched out behind Rick's back a respectful distance away.

"Rick…" It's then that Lori seems to notice how pale Rick is, how tired he seems. Her eyes fall to his injured, shirt-wrapped wrist and widen. "What happened?"

"Got in a fight," Rick replies, scratching the back of his neck with his good hand. "Won."

"Was it one of the changed?" It's Beth's voice and Rick turns to her, looking up into her wide blue eyes. He shakes his head and she presses her lips together, folding her arms across her chest. She sits down on the step, looking out to the cars and the field beyond.

Rick's eyes fall to the barn and he sucks in a breath. "No one go near the barn," he says quietly. He sees Shane and Lori look towards it. "Tell everyone who comes here. No one go near the barn."

"Why?" Lori whispers, turning pale.

Rick shakes his head. "Just don't," he says, and doesn't miss how Shane looks at it again, eyes narrowed and calculating.

"What do we do now?" Lori asks after another quiet moment.

"We wait until Carl's up," Rick says, sighing. "Then…then we move on, I guess."

"Daddy won't make you," Beth says, her voice firm. She looks down at her hands and her wrists and bites her lower lip, before she shakes her head. "I'll talk to 'im. And Maggie. He can't make you leave."

"Don't think that's up for you to change," Rick says kindly, trying to smile. "It's okay, really."

"I'll talk to 'im," Beth says again with a firm nod, and Rick shakes his head but decides not to argue anymore.

They set up tents and their encampment by the lean-to, in the field. Troublemaker keeps Rick upright as they do so, and as they're doing it another collection of cars shows up. Carol and Ed are in one – no Sophia, but Rick doesn't have the stomach to ask them where she is. Glenn said they hadn't lost her, but Glenn doesn't know what happened on the road. Carol looks sick with worry and there's a bruise on her cheek that Rick believes without a doubt was put there by her husband.

Michonne doesn't join them, and no one else that Rick doesn't recognize. He accepts that with a nod – it would have been strange if so many had flocked to him just from stories the others had told. At worst he's been labelled as insane, a crazy man on a foolish mission to save the Goddamn world. At best he's just Carl's father, no more important than any other man. Rick would sometimes prefer it that way.

They station the cars by the field fence as a second barrier and set themselves up in relative comfort. Lori is allowed to stay in the bedroom with Carl and so she is the only one inside. Dale has taken his usual spot on top of his RV, keeping watch.

That night, Rick sleeps in the grass, Troublemaker standing by his side and Daryl laid out next to him. The air is chilly and he shivers, clinging to the blanket and wishing it was big enough to throw over Daryl as well so that they might share some body heat.

Daryl is facing him, a darker silhouette in the night, and Rick reaches out and finds his hand. Daryl squeezes it. "I'm scared to sleep," he whispers.

"Don't be," Daryl replies. "I'm here."

Rick bites his lip and closes his eyes, trying his best to relax. Sleep comes to him easily, his body so worn out and frayed that it succumbs easily to the lull of sleep. Maybe he'll be so tired that he won't dream, but he doesn't hold out much hope of that.

He opens his eyes and is in a suburb, the road stretching out in front of him like it has no end. There are solar panels on either side of it, and clean, untouched white houses lining each side of the road. Rick turns around and there are walls made of sheet metal, stretching up so high he can barely see the tops of the trees beyond them. He doesn't hear any walkers, but birds chirping and the occasional chatter of a squirrel. There's _life_ here, some Eden like Daryl had said. There's a place where they could be safe.

A child runs past him that he doesn't recognize, with blonde hair and dark brown eyes. She giggles and tugs on his hand, which is no longer broken. "Come play with me, daddy!" she says in a her young burbling-English, and Rick smiles and follows her.

As he follows the child he catches glimpses of himself in the windows. He stops, eyes wide when he sees himself. His face is covered in blood, fresh and wet. His hands, too, and there's a smear on the little girl's hand where she had grabbed him. She stops and turns around, calling for him, but Rick can't take his eyes away from his reflection in the window.

He walks up to the window and sees gold, wrapped like snakes around his neck and on top of his head. It almost looks like a crown. He reaches out and touches the window and his reflection doesn't move, merely stands and stares at him with the same horrified expression.

His fingers leave a streak of blood on the window.

Abruptly his reflection slams against the door, beating on it as though it's a different man on the other side of bulletproof glass. He's yelling something, and Rick thinks he can make out the words 'Turn around' in the frantic shape of his mouth.

He turns and gasps, a cold shaft of fear and horror striking through his heart. There are bodies in the street, lying dead, limbs akimbo, eyes white and all staring straight at him. He sees Glenn. He sees Lori, and Merle, and Dale. He sees people he hasn't met yet. He sees Beth.

He stumbles down to the road and falls to his knees near Glenn's body. Glenn's white eyes are staring at him almost in accusation. The child giggles and Rick looks at her and abruptly sees whose child it is – her eyes are the same dark brown, her nose just like her mother's. She bares gleaming white teeth at him and covers her mouth with her bloody hands.

Then, he hears a whistle. It's not one of Daryl's whistles, but he's heard it before. He's heard it in his dream about Famine, and he's heard it in his visions. It has many voices.

He hears a sound like the scrape of metal against concrete and spins around again, on his knees and then on his hands when he feels the edge of a sword laid against the back of his neck. He can't look up, doesn't dare look up to see the man's face, but he can see his reflection still beating frantically at the window. He sees the reflection of the man with the sword – and he looks like any other man, clad in black, but there's a crown on his head and Rick _knows_ who it is.

He bows his head and closes his eyes. "No," he whispers, and War laughs.

"No?" he asks, in a voice that is so familiar and foreign. There are so many voices that make up that of War, clamoring for blood and justice and land and whatever else it is men will kill each other over. "Lift your eyes, Rick. I want to see your face when I kill you."

The sword moves away and sits with the point on his shoulder, and Rick straightens up, opening his eyes. He trembles, something like cold and fear and dreadful certainty making his breaths shake. His gaze moves up, takes in the standard issue gunbelt at the man's waist, the pistol sitting there. He sees the tan uniform shirt – no longer black, nothing like the reflection. He sees the smear of blood on the collar, and there's a huge bloodstain on his chest where Rick's bullet might have gone.

He lifts his eyes to see the man's face. There's no hood, just a crown sitting on his head, golden, with gems the color of red stars and fire set within.

"No," he says again, and War laughs and lifts his sword to strike.

Rick surges awake, yanked out of his dream by some grip much stronger than his will. He thrashes wildly and finds that he'd been standing, and his legs don't give out on him but whether that's because the adrenaline hasn't worn off of because he's truly healed, he cannot say. He screams, grabbing at his neck, sure that he'll find the first hot spurts of blood coating his fingers.

"Rick!"

It's Daryl, awakened by Rick's scream, and he surges up and grabs Rick's hands. Rick's wrist aches sharply but he can't make himself move his hands and he screams again, the sound breaking off as Daryl grabs him and forces him to his knees. He sees Dale shift on top of the RV, gun at the ready, but then his focus is entirely on Daryl. He sees the grass between their knees and can't stop fucking _shaking_.

"God, _no_ ," Rick moans again, as frantic and ravenous as any walker. He leans forward and puts his head in his hands since Daryl won't let his hands go, trembling and shaking so hard he thinks the Earth might just shatter below him and swallow him whole.

"It was a dream," Daryl says, as quietly as he can manage, but loud enough to be heard over Rick's screams and groans. "I'm here. You're okay. You're awake now."

"No, no, no." Because Daryl doesn't _understand_.

"What did you see, Rick?" Daryl asks. "Talk to me. What did you see?"

"Is he alright?"

It's Glenn, and Rick lifts his head to see Glenn and Shane running towards them. Shane has his gun out and Rick flinches away so hard that Daryl breaks his hold, and scrambles back on the grass despite the way the broken bones in his wrist scrape and rub together loud enough for him to hear.

"He's fine!" Daryl barks. "He had a bad dream. Get away."

"Another vision?" Glenn whispers, but then Shane reaches out a hand to stop him and they don't come any closer.

Daryl crawls after him and kneels over Rick's legs, forcing him to be still. Rick grabs him frantically, digging his good hand in Daryl's leg hard enough that he's sure it hurts. "I saw him," he whispers. "I saw War."

Daryl's eyes widen. "And?" he breathes.

Rick takes in a shuddering breath, his eyes filling with tears, his throat too thick to speak. He shakes his head and bows down, burying his face in Daryl's neck. Daryl holds him as tightly as he can, so tightly that Rick feels like he can barely breathe.

"It's Shane," he whispers brokenly. He hears Daryl's heartbeat stutter in surprise, feels the man's surprised gasp. "God, Daryl, it's _Shane_."

He feels Daryl turn. "Go back to sleep," he commands. "I got this." He's not sure if Glenn and Shane move away. He doesn't know if he can bear to look at the man's retreating back. His hands shake so hard he feels like he might shatter all over again.

"Rick," Daryl says, and pulls back just enough to cup Rick's face and force their eyes to meet. "You said it might be 'im before."

Rick lets out a broken sound. "I _saw_ him," he says.

"Okay." Daryl pets through his hair and unlike usual, the touch does nothing to soothe him. "Okay. It's okay. It was a dream." Not a vision. Not _just_ a dream. "We'll figure it out. Just calm down. Please. Please calm down, Rick."

And Rick is trying. His vision is starting to grey out from panic. But he can't pass out – he can't go to sleep because if he sleeps War will kill him, and if he doesn't…what then? He can't just walk up and kill Shane – _God, his best friend…_

"Rick, I'm here," Daryl whispers. He leans their foreheads together, both hands threading through Rick's hair, and Rick thinks the adrenaline might be wearing off because he does start to feel calmer. Or maybe he's just going numb. "Relax, that's it…relax for me. I'm here."

"Daryl, I don't know what to do," Rick says.

"We'll figure it out," Daryl says. "Play it smart." Rick nods, once, slowly. His face is tacky with tears and his mouth feels dry. He presses his good hand against Daryl's chest and fists his fingers tightly in his clothes. One of Daryl's hands lets go of his head to rest over Rick's hand on his chest.

"I gotta kill 'im," Rick whispers one more time.

Daryl doesn't tell him he doesn't, but that's not a conversation they should have right now, if ever. Daryl's right, though – if what Rick saw is true, they have to play it smart. Rick's spine feels electric and his head is feverish. Maybe he's getting sick anyway. Maybe Pestilence and Famine never really died.

Maybe it's all one big cosmic joke designed by bored Gods to play on weak mortals.

"'M right here," Daryl says again, and then he tugs on Rick's hair and closes his eyes, sighing. "We'll figure it out."

 _God, I hope so,_ Rick thinks. Then, _I hope I'm wrong._

_Please, God, let me be wrong. Even if I'm wrong about everything. Let me be wrong about this._


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay guys! I think I might have to switch to just posting on Saturdays because Fridays are becoming a huge pain the butt and I keep having to miss them :/
> 
> Also this chapter was a...struggle. I'll just leave it at struggle.

Rick doesn't sleep. He can't bear the thought of closing his eyes, of seeing those faces staring up at him with blank accusation, or seeing the little girl, or seeing _Shane_. His body feels so numb that it allows him to walk, and he curls up against one of the fence posts and wraps his good arm around his knees and cries. At first, it's heavy sobs, racking his entire frame and coming out in broken, harsh whimpers that catch in his throat and make his head burn.

Then he just cries – he doesn't know how much water he has in his body to lose but it doesn't seem to matter to his body. Every time he thinks he might be done he thinks about having to kill his best friend and the tears start anew, running down his face and soaking into the skin on his arm and his jeans.

Daryl sits by him, but he doesn't stay awake for long. He falls asleep with his head on Rick's shoulder and his hand on Rick's arm, keeping him steady and grounded – or maybe just making sure Rick doesn't wander off again if he does fall asleep. Occasionally he sees movement in the lean-to, one of the many bodies packed in there shifting in place.

At some point in the night Andrea wakes up and goes to sit up with Dale on top of the RV. Glenn wakes too but doesn't go to keep watch. Rick can feel Glenn's eyes on him, although whether the gaze is analytic or scared he can't tell.

He watches the sun break up on the horizon, coloring the sky a lighter black, and then orange and finally a bright blue. Troublemaker comes over and nudges at his knee and Rick smiles, loosening his legs and lifting his good arm to pet the horse's head. The motion causes Daryl to wake and he does so with a snort and he leans his head back against the post.

"Get any more sleep?" he asks.

Rick shakes his head and sighs. "You know the answer."

Daryl nods. His eyes move out to the lean-to again as they watch everyone else waking up. Glenn finally seems to get up the courage to rise and walk over to them both. He skirts by Troublemaker and sits down in front of Rick and Daryl.

"How you feeling?" he asks, dark eyes solemn, voice soft.

Rick huffs a laugh and wipes his hand across his face. The horse snorts and trots off with a flick of his tail, towards the other horse who is standing at the other end of the field. Like the Greenes, Beth's horse seems content to put a wide berth between them and leave it at that.

"Daryl said it was a bad dream," Glenn murmurs, and Rick presses his lips together and nods. "But was it like…a _dream_ , dream?"

And isn't that the million dollar question. Rick used to know what was a dream and what was a vision, but nothing in that place had felt familiar, even in his memories of the visions he's had in the past. Maybe it's just a manifestation of his fears – but then again, how many times has he looked at Shane and seen the crown on his head and the sword in his hand?

How many time has he looked at Shane and _not_ seen it?

Rick lets out a harsh whimper, curling the fingers of his good hand up tightly and shaking his head. " _Fuck_ ," he whispers, running his hand through his hair. Glenn's eyes fall to his purplish-black wrist. It looks worse than it did before, from all the shaking and running around and putting weight and pressure on it when he really shouldn't have been.

"We should have that doctor look at that," Glenn says with a nod to Rick's wrist. His fingers are white from lack of blood loss and he has a hard time moving them when he's not dreaming. "Could be a really bad break."

Rick nods. "Herschel won't wanna help me," he says.

"Beth, then," Daryl offers. He stands up before Rick can protest – not that Rick does, but something dark and ugly does curl up in his chest at the thought of Daryl talking to Beth. He can't help it, even though he knows there is nothing to be concerned about. Daryl _loves_ him, even if neither of them have said the words. Rick doesn't think for a second that Daryl feels anything less than he does when they're together. They lose their minds when they're apart. "I'll see if there's something she can do."

Rick nods, and Daryl regards him for one more long second before he nods as well and strides off towards the bottom of the field, where the Greene house is. Glenn stays behind near Rick and after a moment Rick turns back to look at him.

"Shane told me you guys went to Michonne's camp," he says.

Glenn presses his lips together and nods. "Couldn't think of anywhere else to go where there's people who were friendly, you know?" he says with a shrug. "Rick…I'm sorry. I fought them on it, too. I kept sayin' we should wait for you to come back but then you guys kept…not coming back, and I thought – the first run had gone so quickly, you know? But it was taking so long…"

"I understand," Rick says, reaching out and putting a hand on Glenn's shoulder, squeezing gently. He offers a small smile that the other man returns. "I get it, really. And I'm glad you guys made it to somewhere safer, where there's more people. We should…we should be around people. Most of us. We're stronger in groups."

"Yeah." Glenn's face goes dark for a minute and he falls silent, before he looks over his shoulder towards the lean-to. Lori is sitting with Carol, Andrea and Ed. Even from so far away Rick can see the inward curl of Carol's shoulders, the tightness in her face. Lori and Andrea look uncomfortable too – Rick's been with Lori long enough to recognize the clench of her jaw and the way she keeps tying her hair up and then letting it down – it's something she does when she's irritated. "Not sure all of us are better off though."

Rick swallows hard and looks at Glenn, who is still turned away. "Ed?" he asks, and Glenn looks back at him, blinking in surprise, and nods.

"Yeah," he says. "Ed."

"He make Carol's face look like that?"

Glenn hesitates, then; "Can't prove it, but we all think so. Carol won't talk about it."

"Shane thought so," Rick says. "Told me as much. I told him I'd watch with him, make sure before we moved forward with anything." But there's the proof, isn't it? How long can Rick justify waiting until Ed gets worse – until he beats her until she can't walk? Until he kills her? Until he lays his hands on their little girl?

How long can he wait for Shane to become strong enough as War until Rick can't handle him anymore?

"Probably smart," Glenn says, oblivious to the thoughts rolling around in Rick's head like angry hornets, stinging his brain and the backs of his eyes. "I mean, he's still a human. For now."

"For now," Rick repeats with a nod. Aren't they all? But sometimes men just aren't men anymore, but monsters. He looks for Shane and doesn't see him around the lean-to. He must be out by the RV, or up in the house with Carl. Probably with Carl. He's a good father, a good man – Rick's best fucking friend before this whole mess started. And he's kept the group safe while Rick was away.

And they fight, but brothers fight. _God,_ he _can't_ be War.

Rick shakes his head and scratches harshly at the back of his neck until the skin starts to sting. He needs a shower desperately – the action of scraping off the dust and dirt on his body is making it tender and pink under his hands.

"Carol told me they lost Sophia," Glenn finally whispers, and Rick stops and straightens up.

" _What_?" he demands softly.

Glenn shakes his head. "Not like…like that. They were on the road and a huge pack of walkers came by and everyone was hiding but I guess she panicked and ran off. T-Dog chased after her and we haven't seen either of them since." Rick swallows harshly. "We left food and water on one of the cars and told her to come here if she found it, but…" Glenn shakes his head. "She's only eight."

"She might make it," Rick says, but his voice is weak and he can't make himself believe it. He thinks about losing Carl that way and his stomach turns. He wants to vomit, and he's shaking from so much anxiety it's a wonder he can still think.

Glenn raises one shoulder in a shrug, looking down at the grass. He picks at it absently and shreds it in his hands. "I mean, I guess anything's possible nowadays," he says with a small, sad smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. "Even stopping the apocalypse."

Rick closes his eyes and sighs, before he hears the soft steps of boots through the grass. He opens his eyes and sees Daryl leading Beth up towards him. Beth is carrying a small backpack, one strap loosely slung over her shoulder. The pattern is bright and colorful and reminds Rick of the kinds of bags one might find in a market somewhere, where everything was fringe and bohemian and reminiscent of a decade he could barely remember.

Daryl walks around Rick and Glenn and crouches down on the other side of him as Beth falls to her knees on his right, blowing some of her fringe out of her face. "Daryl told me you broke your wrist," she says, and Rick nods and holds it up for her to inspect.

"Oh, Jeez," she says, unwrapping the final parts of the t-shirt from it and revealing the pinkish, tender skin. She hesitates at the bracelet around his wrist, touching it gently with her thumb, before she looks up at Rick with wide eyes.

Rick thinks, just for a moment, he might see a flicker of recognition in them.

Then she takes in a breath and looks back down at his wrist. She sets her bag to one side and shifts until she's sitting cross-legged and sideways to him, his wrist resting on one thigh. "I know it's all going to hurt," she says with a stern look. "Tell me what's sharp pain and what's dull."

Rick nods, sucking in a breath. He is, after all, no stranger to pain. Beth's thumbs rub gently from the base of his hand to halfway up his forearm, then back down. It throbs dully whenever she rubs his arm and her fingers hesitate just briefly when she touches the scars and scratch marks Rick had put there himself.

"Sharp or dull?" she asks, pressing down lightly on where Rick had felt the snap when his gun had recoiled. Rick sucks in a breath and drags his heels up to him in the reflexive need to curl up and away from the touch, before he forces himself to relax, stomach tensed and teeth gritted.

"Sharp," he growls, and Beth nods and does it again, a little shy of the first place. It's still sharp and Rick blows out an explosive breath. She does the same thing in little concentric rings, gradually rotating outwards until Rick can tell her that the pain is dull. Her fingers keep lingering over his wristband and Rick desperately wants to ask what she's thinking, but she doesn't say anything and Daryl and Glenn are still here. Rick wouldn't mind Daryl being with him when they talk about it, but Glenn is still too much of a stranger, and that kind of weight is a very personal one that Rick wouldn't inflict on him.

"Feels like you fractured your scaphoid," she says, looking up to find Rick, Daryl and Glenn staring blankly at her. "It's one of the bones in your wrist. Most common kind of fracture, really. But if you keep messing with it you could lose a lot of use in your hand."

"So what'd'we do?" Daryl asks gruffly, folding his arms across his chest.

Beth presses her lips together and makes a helpless sound. "If it doesn't heal on its own, then usually it means surgery or a bone graft," she says, making Daryl growl in displeasure. "But we can bind it properly, ice it down, and hope for the best." She fixes her wide eyes on Rick's face. "Even if it doesn't heal completely, you'll get feeling and use back in your hand for the most part. You'll probably need some kind of exercises to get the strength back but there's very little swelling, which is a good sign."

Rick smiles at her. "Do you have anything to help me bind it?" he asks, keeping his voice gentle.

Beth nods, setting his hand on her thigh while she turns and rummages around in her bag. She pulls out a tightly-rolled bandage, some clips, an ice pack and painkillers as well as a bottle of water. "Normally these kinds of fractures don't hurt after a few weeks," she says. "How long ago did you break it?"

Rick looks at Daryl and Glenn. How long _had_ he been gone? Had the journey to Pestilence taken two weeks, or the journey from, or had they been stuck in the hospital during the fight for days, trapped and unable to escape or fight their way out?

"Right before we got here," Rick finally says, and Beth nods.

"Here, take these," she says, handing him some Ibuprofen and a bottle of water. "You should eat something, too. I'll bind your wrist in a second."

Daryl gets up when Glenn takes the water and pills, walking over to the lean-to to where their stuff is to grab Rick something to eat. Rick sees Andrea, Lori, Carol and Ed look up as he approaches, and Carol offers a small smile before ducking her head. Lori and Daryl exchange brief words, Lori's face stony and Daryl's shoulders, tense, before he ducks inside and comes back out a moment later with one of the pudding cups from the facility.

He peels off the lid and keeps it for himself to lick clean before handing Rick the open cup. Rick grins and raises it in a mockery of a toast before he lifts it to his mouth and shakes it, slurping down the first half as best he can. As he's eating, tonguing the rest out, Beth takes his wrist again and starts to slowly unroll the bandage.

"We should really get rid of this," Beth says, thumbing at the wristband. Rick stops eating to look at her. "How long have you been wearing this?"

"Months," Rick replies, and sees her blink as she does the mental math. "I don't wanna get rid of it," he says, and shrugs.

"Okay," Beth murmurs, before she takes out a small antiseptic wipe and rubs down Rick's arm and wrist. She tries to be gentle, Rick can tell, but she scrubs at his forearm with a fierceness that seems unwarranted. She seems fascinated and repulsed by the scratches on Rick's arm – some of them left by himself, but there are more on his left that were placed there by Famine. He wonders how she would react to seeing those ones.

When his skin is relatively clean, she folds the bandage so that she can find the half and slides it around Rick's thumb. She keeps one half of the bandage free and starts to wrap the other one tight around his wrist and up his forearm, and then back down. It throbs like a bitch and Rick tries to focus on eating enough to take the painkillers instead of the pain as she wraps his wrist for him.

She binds it tightly, enough that Rick's fingers turn a little pink – but it's better than the white they were before. She wraps the other half around the first and uses two of the clips to lodge the edges into place just shy of Rick's elbow.

She sits back with a satisfied huff, wiping her forearm across her forehead, and grins at him. "Can you move it?" she asks, and Rick tries and shakes his head. His wrist is too weak to get more than a twitch and definitely too weak to fight her tight bindings. "Good. Let me know if it gets loose, but after about a week or so we can take it off and try getting your hand back."

Rick smiles at her. "Thank you," he says. The wristband is pressing on his skin harshly – he can feel it, and thinks she was right to try and get him to remove it, but it's important that he keeps it on him. It's like a brand, and lets people know that whatever and whoever he might present himself as, he was once part of a facility where the people were dangerous and it's always going to be safer for people to know that about him. He can't afford to lie to anyone.

"I'm gonna go talk to Daddy about your guys stayin'," Beth says with a smile, pushing herself to her feet and grabbing her bag. Rick sets his half-empty pudding cup to one side and takes the pills from Glenn, then the bottle of water and drinks it down. He feels incredibly dehydrated from crying all night and finishes the bottle quickly, gasping loudly when it's done.

"So, great, you might just lose your fuckin' hand," Daryl mutters once Beth has gone. He plops down onto the ground and rubs his hands through his hair before glaring at Rick's wrist as though it has personally offended him. "I swear, if Woodmore was still kickin' I'd snap his neck all over again."

Rick huffs a laugh. After a moment they hear a whistle and they all look up. Dale is by the RV and waving at Glenn, calling for him. Shane is nearby, and the hood of the RV is open. Rick frowns and hopes there's nothing wrong with the vehicle.

Glenn gets up and bids them goodbye, before he walks away from the both of them and leaves Daryl and Rick alone. As soon as Daryl guesses they're out of earshot of everyone else and no one is paying attention to them, he slides to the ground next to Rick and leans against him, his forehead on Rick's shoulder.

Rick smiles and folds his arm, rubbing his wrapped hand against Daryl's cheek, and Daryl catches his hand and laces their fingers together. He kisses the back of Rick's hand and curls up even tighter against him as though for warmth, even though the sun is high now and warming the air pleasantly.

Rick closes his eyes and rests his cheek against Daryl's hair, curling his legs up and giving a soft sigh when, for the first time, his legs don't ache. "I think the dream kicked my brain into gear," he says, and Daryl gives a soft hum in question. "Legs don't hurt."

Daryl snorts. "Great," he says, though he does sound relieved. "So just your hand now."

"Gotta start learning to shoot with my left," Rick murmurs. He takes a deep breath, the air soaked with Daryl's scent, and for the first time in a long time, he feels totally calm. Maybe it's Daryl that does that to him, or maybe it's because his legs feel better – all he knows is that he has absolutely no reason to be calm, and yet, he is. "Will you help me?"

He feels Daryl nod and squeeze Rick's fingers gently. "Lori wanted to know what you were dreaming about," she says. "Says Shane said he heard his name when you were…last night."

Rick breathes in slowly, trying to calm his hammering heart, and wants with all his might not to be thinking that War is onto him. "What'd you tell her?"

Daryl shrugs. "Said it wasn't any of her Goddamn business," he replies, and Rick huffs a laugh. "That didn't go over well."

"Shocking," Rick murmurs, flinching when Daryl jabs the fingers of his other hand into Rick's side. They both let out quiet laughs and then Daryl lifts his head and nuzzles against Rick's shoulder. "Shane is War."

"Yeah," Daryl says. "Might be."

"I gotta be sure." The fingers of his free hand curl up tightly enough that his knuckles go white. "I _gotta_ be sure."

"We have time," Daryl murmurs. "Ain't gonna let anythin' happen to you."

Rick smiles. "I know," he says. Then his body shudders and he stifles a wide yawn behind his hand. Daryl huffs a laugh and straightens up a little bit. He lets go of Rick's hand and wraps his arm around Rick's shoulders instead, encouraging Rick to curl up and lean his weight against Daryl.

"Sleep, Rick," Daryl says quietly. "I'm here."


	32. Chapter 32

Rick lets out another frustrated sound when the bullet hits to the left of his target, narrowly missing the empty pudding cup, one of five that Daryl had laid out in a neat line along a fallen tree branch. He sighs, taking a step back and rubbing his hand through his hair. The butt of his gun rubs along his temple before he drops his arm with a sigh.

Daryl lets out a soft snort. "I wanna make an overcompensation joke," he says, and Rick grins at him and looks over. The archer is leaning against another tree, crossbow hanging loosely off his shoulder, playing both the part of lookout, target manager and commentary as Rick practices shooting with his left hand.

"If anything, I'm undercompensating," Rick replies with a shake of his head. "I keep thinkin' I'm gonna hit it and then my hand twitches or somethin'."

"You'll get better with practice," Daryl says. He looks up and squints at the sky and Rick is silent while he takes stock of the sunlight. Daryl knows how to tell what time it is much better than he does, especially in the trees like they are. "Got about an hour of daylight left if you wanna keep going."

"Nothin' else to do," Rick replies with a shrug, and Daryl nods. That is true, after all. Carl's state has remained unchanged, and while they've managed to attain some kind of peace on the Greene farm, Herschel has yet to show any sign of warming up to them or coming up with some kind of permanent solution.

Rick sighs and straightens his stance, lifting his arm. His muscles feel weak and they haven't turned cold like his arm tends to do when he's ready to fire his gun. Then again, he's not sure that it would change if we weren't prepared to take a life.

Daryl steps up beside him and Rick sucks in a slow breath, trying to find his focus and make sure the sights line up. His hand is shaking, not used the weight of his heavy gun. Daryl is quiet for another moment, and then Rick feels his hand gently cupping the bottom of his bicep. Abruptly the shaking stops.

"Your arm'll get stronger," Daryl murmurs, so close to Rick's ear that Rick feels a tremble run down his spine. He wants to turn his head so badly but forces himself to keep his eyes on the line of pudding cups. His finger tightens a little on the trigger and he bites his lower lip. Daryl's other hand is settled between Rick's shoulder blades and Rick can feel the little touch as he rubs his thumb back and forth. "You're shaking."

"Your fault," Rick breathes. He can see the edge of Daryl's wild hair in his periphery but not much else. Daryl lets out a low, warm laugh, and the hand holding Rick's arm forces it a little higher. "I know how to shoot, Daryl."

"I know," Daryl says quietly, and Rick feels him pressing up a little closer to Rick's side. His hand shakes even harder and he finally gives up, lowering it with a sigh. He turns and Daryl's right there, and Rick pushes his bandaged hand below the mess of his hair and curls his fingers around the back of his neck and kisses him.

Daryl's arm on his back doesn't move and he gently touches Rick's shoulder as Rick kisses him, fisting tightly in his clothing and pulling him close. His lips part and he submits to the kiss with a sweet whine, letting Rick back him up against the nearest tree in a single stride.

Daryl grabs at him fiercely, kissing Rick back just as hard as Rick shoves their bodies together like he's trying to firmly, _finally_ , make them one, make them the same person. At the Greene farm he has never had so much interrupted _free_ time with Daryl – nothing so wild and unburdened. It feels like Daryl has been doing his best to make Rick forget his awful dreams and it's been working. With every day his hand gets better, his sleep becomes more solid, and his love for Daryl grows.

Rick pulls away when he's lost all of his air, gasping against Daryl's pinked mouth, their foreheads resting together. Daryl looks dazed, his pretty eyes heavy and unfocused, and Rick huffs a laugh. "You're distracting me," he says in accusation, but with no heat.

Daryl blinks and licks his lips, his hand running from Rick's shoulder to his arm, and then curling around his gun. "Maybe," he says, then, smiling slyly; "You're not shakin' anymore."

Rick straightens up, his hand leaving Daryl's hair even though it feels physically painful to do so, and not just because it's his injured arm. He turns his head when he hears the low hiss of a walker coming towards them. It's jaw is hanging open by a single thread of skin from its cheek, its eyes are wide and vacant and white.

Rick sees Daryl move to shoot it down and he holds up a hand, stopping him. "Let me try," he says, and steps away from Daryl and the tree to where he was standing before. Daryl nods, his crossbow ready but lowered.

Rick takes a breath and lifts his gun and fires. It hits a tree by the walker's head and the thing growls at him, lunging in his direction. He fires again and clips its shoulder.

"Relax," Daryl murmurs, coming into view at Rick's side. He reaches out and touched Rick's shoulder. "You're a good shot, Rick. Got plenty'a time."

Time, Rick thinks, might be his ultimate enemy. The walker is about ten feet from him when he makes the headshot and it goes down. He sighs and shifts his gun into his loose right hand just enough so that it's stable enough to holster, and thinks about how he might have to start wearing everything backwards now.

"Good job," Daryl says warmly, letting go of Rick's shoulder.

Rick shakes his head. "Wastin' bullets," he says. "We gotta get with some people and try and find more. Gotta be runnin' low by now."

Daryl nods and looks up at the sky. "Should be headin' back," he says, and Rick sighs again. He doesn't want to leave the peace of the woods, the serenity of being around Daryl in a place that is as natural and almost as wild as he is. His lips tingle when he licks them, eager for more of Daryl's mouth. Daryl watches him for another second, eyes dark, before he seems to snap back to reality and shifts his weight. "Come on."

Rick follows him back, both of them keeping a sharp eye out for walkers, but they manage to get back to the Greene farm unmolested. Over the course of their days here they'd managed to construct the few tents that the group owned, so now there is a camp-like installment around the lean-to. Shane, Lori and Carl have a tent. Andrea and Dale sleep in the RV, which is now parked closer to the paddock fence. Merle sleeps in the bed of his truck most nights and Glenn has another tent that is built into the side of the RV and pops out during the night. Carol and Ed sleep in their car.

And Rick and Daryl sleep in the lean-to, most of the time. Sometimes they go out into the field and Troublemaker lays down with them and keeps them warm, as well as providing the first warning sign for walkers or other members of the group waking up. Rick hasn't had any more nightmares bad enough to have him sleepwalking and screaming, but he does wake up in a cold sweat most nights, shivering and soaked to the bone with Daryl a warm balm on one side and the horse's soft flank on the other.

Daryl stops them just short of the tree line and Rick halts next to him. They can see the dark blue of Shane and Lori's tent from here, as well as the white rise of the Greene house. Rick is sure, however, that in the rapidly approaching darkness no one can see them. They don't fear alarming their people by sneaking up on them, though – Troublemaker has seemed to recognize all the people in his group and only whinnies when there's a walker or a stranger about, and the group know enough of Daryl's whistles to recognize him coming.

Rick looks at Daryl, the dusk making his face glow and turn blurry. "I don't want to go back yet," he confesses, whisper-quiet, his breath misting in the chilling air. It'll be a cold night tonight, with fall approaching.

Rick looks back out to the camp and can't help nodding in agreement. It is, after all, exactly how he'd felt the entire way back. "Do you want to be alone?" he asks.

"With you," Daryl replies, and Rick nods, letting go of a quiet sigh of relief. He doesn't mind Daryl being on his own, as long as Rick is there too – and he supposes that ruins the point of being alone, but can he honestly bring himself to think of them as anything but one cohesive unit? They don't like leaving each other by themselves, or knowing the other is out of their sight.

Rick smiles when Daryl looks at him, and together they duck to one side and merge back into the tree line and further in. They don't go far – the light is too low for Rick to see well by, though Daryl navigates the forest with the same ease as a wild animal. Still, Rick feels about as graceful as a blind elephant, trampling through the forest behind Daryl.

Finally they come to a stop. Rick can still see the light of the Greene farm and from Dale's RV through the trees if he concentrates and stands just right, but otherwise they're in the fuzzy kind of darkness that forests have when the sun is setting. Daryl finds a spot at the base of a tall tree to sit, where the ground is relatively clear and even, and sits down with a sigh.

Rick joins him, curling up so that one of his legs is crossed over Daryl's and Daryl's hand is resting on his thigh. Daryl's crossbow gets propped up next to him, against the tree, and Rick heaves another breath.

He closes his eyes, letting the cool air soak into his skin. It's a little colder than he's normally comfortable with and he's sure when they go to bed he'll need to put on a coat and grab a second blanket to stay warm, but Daryl's heat next to him warms him well enough to keep quiet about it. Besides, Daryl wanted tie alone, and so Rick will give him that.

After a moment Daryl reaches into his pocket and pulls out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. Rick frowns at them but doesn't comment, and doesn't say anything when, after a moment, Daryl grunts and throws the pack into the trees.

"Thought about quitting for a long time," he says. "Seems as good a time as any."

"I assumed you were always more of a social smoker," Rick replies lightly. "Never saw you smoking alone."

"Not my choice," Daryl says. Then, "You'd watch me smoke?"

Rick nods, unapologetic. "When I was in the rec room, or Doctor Woodmore's office, or in group, I'd look out the window and see you sometimes. I liked seeing you outside." He waits for a moment, to see if Daryl has any opinion on that. Nothing comes. "I know it's stupid to think, but I always felt you were there whenever I was going to be alone. You always made sure I wasn't alone, when you could."

Daryl hums, shifting his weight a little so that his shoulder digs under Rick's and Rick can curl up against him. He bends his legs and rests them on Daryl's, their hands curling together against Rick's stomach. It's an intimate, innocent pose, the tree cradling them soundly in her roots.

"I mean, there's some truth to that," Daryl replies after a while, his voice low. "There were only so many people workin' there. Y'all outnumbered us three to one. Could'a gone full _Cuckoo's Nest_ at any moment. We'd all sneak out for smoke breaks when there were enough of us around to keep an eye on things."

Rick chuckles, the answer surprising and somehow totally unsurprising all at once. "Who was everyone most afraid of?" he asks. "Who was your McMurphy?"

Daryl is quiet for a moment. He links his fingers with Rick's good hand and then raises it to his lips, kissing the back of his hand lightly before he lets them drop again. Rick lifts his head so that he can see Daryl's face.

Daryl raises his eyes and meets Rick's gaze, although Rick isn't sure how much of him Daryl can see. Daryl's outline is starting to become more grey, the rest of him a mix of blacks and whites to mark his silhouette, face and hair. The blue still shines, though, and Rick focuses on them.

"You," Daryl says after another moment. Rick blinks, but the answer doesn’t trouble him. It's not the one he was expecting – Old Ken, maybe, or Jack, with all his brawn and anger issues – but he supposes anyone would be afraid of someone who would commit a triple homicide without batting an eye.

"Me," Rick replies. He remembers the hours they spent in Daryl's trailer. "Are you afraid of me, Daryl?"

Daryl shakes his head. "Was never scared o'ya," he says, and Rick believes him. Daryl lets go of his hands and touches his face instead, palm spreading out warmly across Rick's jaw. Rick shivers, and not because he's cold. "Scared of what you did, sometimes. Still am, if I'm gonna be honest – but I trust ya more than I'm scared, you get me?"

Rick nods, wrapping his fingers around Daryl's hand. He leans in and Daryl meets him, stealing his breath in another kiss that warms Rick better than any fire or heated house could. He wishes they never had to go back to the camp – that they could just disappear one night and hunt down War and kill him and come back to a world made new.

But they can't. Rick can't leave Carl now, and he especially can't risk parting from the final domino in the restoration of the world.

Daryl kisses him again, his eyes closed so Rick can't see the shine of his blue eyes. "You're thinking too much," he complains, and Rick huffs a laugh and shakes his head.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I wish I couldn't think at all."

Daryl opens his eyes and sighs. His thumb brushes gently over the rise of Rick's cheekbone before he pulls his hands away. "I get it," he says. "I mean, killin' yer best friend – stoppin' the apocalypse. That's a big-ass slice of no thank you for me."

Rick nods. "I hope one day Death tells me why he chose me," he says. "For a long time I didn't even…I didn't even know what I was seeing, what I was thinking. And when I woke up I was _sure_ that I would be okay, that it was just the drugs or dreaming or whatever else."

Daryl is quiet and Rick closes his eyes and rests his forehead against Daryl's shoulder.

"I made it a week," he whispers, his fingers tightening around Daryl's. "Death left me in peace for a week after I woke up. Then the visions never stopped. The dreams never stopped. _He_ never stopped." He sighs. "I'm so tired, Daryl."

"I know," Daryl says, just as quietly. He runs his hands through Rick's hair and turns so that he can press a kiss to Rick's forehead.

Rick allows the moment to linger as long as he can bear it, before he becomes aware of the sound of movement in the trees. He straightens, and Daryl seems to hear it at the same time because he scrambles to his feet and grabs his crossbow. Rick stands and reaches for his gun and Daryl grabs his arm.

"Let's get back," he says quietly. It could be a walker, but it could be a person, too. Rick doesn't hear any hissing or growling. He follows Daryl back, one hand on his shoulder, until the sunset lights up the edge of the trees and they break out into the open field. Daryl lets out a sharp whistle to let Dale know that they're coming and they run to the paddock and turn around once they reach the fence so that their back is to it.

Rick sees Beth and Shane approaching and keeps his eye on the trees. "We got company," Rick says when their shadows merge with his and Daryl's. "Might be walkers. Ain't sure."

"We got you covered," Shane replies, and Rick sees him raise his gun and tries not to think about how easy it would be for Shane to put him down right then and there. He wonders if War's vessel, whoever he might be, is aware – would he see Rick's face and see Death in it? Is Shane that good of an actor? Would Rick even know if he was or wasn't?

Rick hears a twig snap and straightens, his hand on his own weapon. Daryl has his crossbow raised and ready, squinting through the sight. The sunset is making the trees grow fuzzy, the shadows merging and shifting together, but then Rick sees a shape moving through them.

"There," he says, and nods towards it. Daryl gives a grunt of acknowledgement and Rick sees him shift in place to follow it with his bow.

They wait a few more seconds. The shadow is becoming distinctly human-shaped, a much darker shade of black amongst the trees.

"Fast for a walker," Shane murmurs.

Daryl nods. "Limpin'," he says.

Rick can see that. The shadow is that of a man, hulking. His clothes are dark and there's a mesh of blood and mud caked into his clothes and on his skin. He's walking with a limp, like his ankle is sprained or broken.

Daryl lets out a soft sigh that Rick thinks only he might hear, and then he widens his eyes and lowers his bow. "I think that's…"

Rick squints. Glenn comes up to stand within the group as well.

"Is that T-Dog?"

Then, a shot rings out, and the shape falls with a high-pitched groan. Rick runs forward before he can think about it, Shane and Glenn hot on his heels. They reach the body of the man and is it, in fact, T-Dog. There's blood pooling freshly from his shoulder and Rick turns, spying Andrea crouched on top of the RV with the sniper in her hand.

"Don't shoot!" he yells, waving his hand, and hopes Daryl and Beth will convey the message properly. He turns back just as Shane and Glenn get T-Dog upright. T-Dog's eyelids are fluttering wildly and his skin is clammy with sweat but he's semiconscious, as least.

"I couldn't…find her…" T-Dog says, coughing and grimacing when the action jars his aching body. "Couldn't…find her – I'm sorry…"

"Don't talk, man, don't talk," Glenn says, grimacing under his weight, and Rick ducks down and takes his place, holding T-Dog's arm across his shoulders as Glenn straightens up. "Fuck – should we take him to Herschel?"

"Warn him, at least," Shane grits out. Rick nods in agreement and Glenn turns around and runs back to Beth, who follows him towards the house as he sprints away. Daryl comes forward with his bow slung across his back and tears off the sleeve of his shirt, wrapping it into a thick pad and pressing it to T-Dog's shoulder.

"Fuckin' bitch has a Goddamn scope and still's fuckin' blind," Daryl grits out, and Rick doesn't have the breath to agree with him, but he does. Together, he, Shane and Daryl get T-Dog as far as the RV before the man finally collapses and Rick and Shane can carry him no farther. Dale comes down and Andrea follows, her already pale face ghost-like.

"Herschel's coming," Glenn says, out of breath from sprinting when he returns. Rick nods and they clear off a spot on the ground and lay down a blanket to put T-Dog on. It looks like the bullet went through cleanly and Rick is glad for that, knowing from experience that it's often better when that happens.

"You're gonna be okay," Rick says, pulling off T-Dog's sweat-soaked wool cap and putting a hand to the man's forehead. He's burning up. Rick tries not to think about how there's a shadow looming over T-Dog that has nothing to do with the people standing around them and the setting sun, and he ignores how the blood soaking into the bandage on his wrist feels ice-cold. "You're gonna be okay."


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon but out-of-place/order character death in here. Also implied physical abuse a-la-Ed.

T-Dog passes out soon after they get him laid out. They bind his wound as best they can but no one knows his blood type and no one is a universal donor that they're aware of, so they can't do for him what Rick did for Carl. All they can do is hope for the best.

As soon as the worst of the panic is over, Shane whirls on Andrea as she climbs down from the RV. "What the actual fuck is wrong with you?" he demands, getting close to her, his face red with anger. The rest of the group go still and Andrea pales, clutching the sniper tightly to her chest. "You so fuckin' anxious to prove yourself you shootin' the livin' now, too?"

"Scope's cracked," Andrea replies icily. "Hard to see."

"We had it handled," Shane hisses. "If it had been a walker, _we_ will take it down – you didn't even know how to hold a gun come two weeks ago."

"Shane," Rick murmurs, standing and nodding over so that Shane looks at Carol as she hurries towards the group of them. She's clutching at a necklace around her neck and stops short when she sees who, exactly, got shot. A hand goes to her mouth and her eyes fill with tears.

"Oh, God," she moans, shaking her head. "He was – he was out there because of Sophia."

Shane nods, trapping his tongue between his lips. He seems content to leave Andrea alone for now as he turns to face Carol and Ed, his hands on his hips. "Said he didn't find her," he says, and the tears in Carol's eyes well up and start to spill down her cheeks.

"So she's still missing," Carol whispers.

Ed scoffs, a dark expression coloring his face. "Wouldn't be if you could just keep a hold of her," he says lowly, and Rick isn't sure anyone else was meant to hear, but they do. During his time as a cop and then at the facility he became very good at _noticing_ things about people, and one of the things that had always surprised him was how unprepared they were to face a difficult situation, and how eager they were to pretend it had never happened.

Daryl shoves himself to his feet and stalks over to Ed with a low snarl. "Hey!" he says, jabbing a finger in Ed's meaty chest hard enough that the man takes a stumbling step back. "Don't you fuckin' talk to her like that."

Ed glares at Daryl, before his eyes shift to Rick and Shane and he subsides. Rick's eyes narrow and he makes a note not to let Ed and Daryl be close and alone where something could happen. Ed isn't willing to take on three dogs in one fight. He's a weasel, and will pick them off one by one when their backs are turned.

"Ed, please," Carol says, touching his arm. He shrugs her touch away and leaves, stalking back towards the lean-to. Carol offers a watery smile in Daryl's direction and then trudges after him as though she's being pulled on a leash. Rick leaves T-Dog and the others gathered around him and stops at Daryl's side.

Daryl lets out a low, angry noise, still glaring at the back of Ed's head. "Man like that don't deserve a wife _or_ kid," he says, and there's something venomous and personal in his voice. Rick thinks about Merle, and about Daryl's parents, and what little of Daryl he had gleaned from the trailer.

Rick nods in agreement. His bandage is soaked with blood and his hand feels cold – but not the same kind of cold that it feels when Death is prepared to take a life. This cold is very human and real, the mild discomfort of something wet being in the open air.

"It's almost night," Lori says, and Rick looks up to see that the last of the sunlight has given up the ghost and faded over the horizon. Soon it'll be too dark to walk confidently even in the field. "I'll stay up."

"Me too," Shane says with a nod, and holds a hand out for the sniper. "You won't be needing that."

Andrea glares at him before she hands it over with an impatient huff. " _Anyone_ else, you wouldn't be makin' such a stink about it."

"Anyone else would have known a walker from a man," Shane replies mildly. Rick bites his lip to stop himself smirking, knowing the humor is out of place. T-Dog got _shot_ and he was out here all alone, looking for that little girl. Who knows what happened to her?

"You know what? Fuck you, Walsh!" Andrea shrieks, before she turns and stomps over to the RV, going inside with a hearty slam of the door. Dale climbs down from the roof of the RV and adjusts his cap with a sigh. "Fuck all of you! I'm leaving in the morning!" Andrea's voice comes from the inside.

Dale shakes his head. "I'll talk to her," he says. No one answers him, and so he goes into RV as well, closing the door with a much more polite air about him than Andrea had. Rick catches Shane's eye and walks over to his friend's side.

He expects to feel heat, emanating off of Shane like a furnace. War is blood, and sweat, after all. He feels nothing – nothing at all. "Heard gunshots earlier," Shane says in greeting. "You two alright?"

Rick nods. "Was practicing," he says, lifting his hand up for Shane to see. "Gotta start bein' just as good with my left, just in case. Beth says I might lose a lot of use of my hand 'cause'a the way I broke it."

"Shit, man," Shane says, eyes wide. Lori leaves to fetch their blankets from their tent so that they can be warm on top of the RV while keeping watch. Shane looks like he's about to say something else when they're interrupted by a sharp whistle. Rick's head snaps up and he looks over at Daryl, even though he knows he didn't hear it come from the other man.

Merle saunters into the light cast by the RV headlights, a grin on his face. "Lil bro. A word?" Before Daryl can argue Merle has an arm slung around his shoulders and is walking him out towards the other end of the field. Rick doesn't see Daryl look back in his direction, but his stomach goes tense with anxiety as soon as the brothers step out of the halo of light.

Lori returns with blankets and Shane helps her onto the ladder onto the top of the RV. Rick sighs. "See you around, brother," he says, and Shane nods at him. Glenn stays by T-Dog and offers Rick a watery smile. "Are you still waiting for Beth?" Rick asks. He's not sure Herschel will come to them at night.

Glenn shakes his head and rests a hand on T-Dog's shoulder. "Just wanna make sure he's okay," Glenn replies, and Rick wonders if Glenn is thinking about the fact that if T-Dog passes in the middle of the night, one of them will have to put a knife through his skull. He wonders if he should ask. "He was with me from the beginning, you know? I think of him as family."

Rick smiles and nods. "I can wait with you, if you'd like?" he offers, although he knows Glenn will refuse. Predictably, the younger man shakes his head, and Rick considers himself dismissed.

He stands for a moment, at a loss of where to go. He might go to the field and lie down with Troublemaker, but he doesn't want to fall asleep without Daryl beside him. He considers going to the lean-to and making sure everything is okay there, but the thought of being around Ed makes him bristle unpleasantly. He's not sure he could hold his tongue or his weapon for long enough for the man to last the night.

Merle usually takes the cars, but he's out with Daryl. At least by the cars, Rick will know once Merle is done because he'll come back. Decided, he walks over to the police cruiser and sits on the trunk door. The car gives a soft groan of protest and sinks a little under his weight.

He sighs and settles down to wait, his eyes inexplicably drawn to the large, dark shadow of the barn against the slightly lighter backdrop of the sky. His skin crawls when he looks at it. By daylight it's unassuming, in need of some pain and repair around the edges, but strong and serviceable. Rick wonders what kind of things the Greenes used to put in there – horses, maybe, or hay, or farming equipment. They didn't seem like particularly prolific breeders or ranchers. They were the kind of family who just…lived on a farm. The girls woke up to collect eggs, made sure the cows and horses hasn't gotten out in the middle of the night, and then they went to school while their parents tended to the animals and the fields.

What a wonderful life. Rick smiles. His own childhood had been fairly unexciting. He grew up with his best friend two blocks away, the same town, the same county. Rick has never traveled farther than that one time they went to Florida for spring break in college. His brother, on the other hand, is on a whole other fucking continent. Rick has never felt the need to wander – he likes having a home, and a familiar place. For his line of work, he doesn't relish meeting new people, and he gets anxious in unknown territory.

This whole place is unknown territory. Rick remembers the first time he'd seen Death after he'd woken up. The fear and anxiety made him feel like he might go right back into the coma just to escape it. He's not meant to be an adventurer. He doesn't have the blood for it.

The air grows cold but Rick can't sense Death near him. Strange, when the other two horsemen had been around, Rick had seen him almost constantly, like he was keeping watch. His wisdom and his attitude made Rick almost consider him a friend. With Famine, in Atlanta, Death had been there. In the facility – well, Death was always there, keeping an eye on Woodmore just as Woodmore was keeping an eye on Rick.

Here, though, Rick feels distant and estranged from him. Does that mean that there are no horsemen here? He growls, tucking the heels of his boots against the bumper of the car and running his hands harshly through his hair. He just wants _answers_. A direction, a sign. _Anything_.

Rick sits up as he hears footsteps approaching. He knows it's not Daryl and Merle because the steps are far too quiet for Merle and far too loud for Daryl. He turns and winces when a flashlight shines on his face, before it drops and Rick blinks.

"I thought it was you," says a voice, and Rick recognizes Beth. She pushes herself up onto the car beside him and Rick cocks his head at her.

"You should be inside," he says. He can hear the way her breath shivers with cold. Rick hardly feels it, himself, but he's used to the cold. "Not safe out here."

"Not safe anywhere," Beth replies. Then, "I wanted to ask about your wristband."

Rick nods. He figures this was bound to come up when and if the two of them were ever reasonably alone. Truthfully he had thought it might never happen – they hardly have reason to speak to each other, after all.

"What about it?" he asks.

"It's for institutions," Beth says quietly, quickly, like she's afraid of running out of breath before the words get out. Rick can't see her, but knows she's looking at him. The flashlight illuminates a single circle of grass beyond the car near their feet. "For people who are sick, like, mentally."

Rick nods though she can't see. "That's true," he says.

"Daddy thinks you're crazy," Beth continues. "I know it's personal but I think if he knows what _kind_ of crazy – you know, maybe he'll change his mind."

Rick huffs a laugh. "I've told your father more than enough to make up his mind," he says wryly. He hears her give a frustrated huff. "Why you so set on us stayin', huh? I promise, we'll cause a lot more trouble than we'll cure."

Beth is silent for a moment, before she looks down. "I had a wristband like that, once," she says. Rick figured as much – no one is that fascinated with one without having worn one themselves. "I…I used to hurt myself, when things got too much. Haven't for a long time, but…I saw your scars."

Rick nods. "Yeah," he says. "I hurt myself sometimes, too."

"I thought things were meant to get easier when you grew up," Beth says, and Rick can hear the tears thickly in her voice. "I thought…you know…you wake up some day and something just _snaps_ and everything's alright. I remember when I woke up and saw my momma get bit." She shifts her weight, the flashlight roving wildly as she raises a hand to wipe the tears from her face. "You said you can cure 'em."

Rick nods. "Yes."

"Do you say that 'cause you're sick?"

And isn't that a question everyone would die to answer? Rick licks his lips and looks out across the dark expanse of the green farm, the higher horizon where the trees start. He rubs a hand over his mouth and his eyes move to the top of the RV, where Shane and Lori are undoubtedly cuddled up against the cold. How long would it have taken, without the catalyst of a coma and then Rick's psychosis, for them to end up exactly where they are now? Would it have happened at all?

"Yes," Rick finally says, because it doesn't sound like Beth is breathing, holding it in to hear his answer. "But just because I'm sick doesn't mean I'm wrong."

"Yes it does," Beth says, tearfully. "Because one day you're going to wake up and everything is going to _snap_ back and you'll feel alright and you won't be sick anymore."

Rick shakes his head. "Doesn't work like that," he murmurs. "Do you think that's what'll happen to your mom?"

"Shut up." Beth shoves herself off the car and grabs her flashlight, wrapping her arms tightly around herself. She points the light at Rick's chest as though it's an accusing finger. " _Everything_ can be cured," she hisses. "Even this."

"I believe you," Rick replies, and Beth lets out another hurt, angry sound and then she's leaving, moving quickly over the grass like she's running. Rick sighs and looks back out to the barn. There are walkers in there. He knows it, and Daryl knows it. Do the Greenes think they can be cured? How _many_ are in there?

Rick doesn't know how long he stays there, staring at the barn, before the uncontrollable urge to see for himself overtakes him. He pushes himself off the car and starts walking towards it. His movements are slow and careful – he doesn't want to fall and risk hurting his wrist any more through any reflexive need to catch himself. He moves quietly past the house and gives it a wide berth to avoid activating the porch light.

As he approaches the barn, he goes still and holds his breath. He can hear them, shuffling around inside. Their noises are muted, not incensed to growl or hiss since they have no warm flesh to chase. Rick wonders if the Greenes feed them, or if they just let them stand in here like broken statues. He creeps closer and presses a hand to the barn door.

He closes his eyes and listens. He doesn't know if they can hear him, or sense him, as a harbinger of the apocalypse that created them, but as he listens to them shuffling around inside he feels a powerful sense of dread creep up over his skull. It enfolds him like a heavy blanket and Rick clenches his fist against the barn wall, swallowing back a whimper at the _evil_ sense he has. It slithers up his arm from the old wood, snakes around his neck, and chokes him.

Suddenly a hand grabs his arm and yanks him back and Rick whirls around to fight or lash out, but then he knows it's Daryl. He hears the hitch in the man's breathing and the plasticy click of the crossbow on his back, and Daryl's touch on his arm instantly calms him. He's breathing heavily, sweating like he just sprinted a marathon.

"The fuck you doin' comin' over here?" Daryl growls, and grabs Rick's hand to yank him back towards the halo of light that is the Greene house. "You tryin' to party with dead people now?"

Rick hums when Daryl slows to a stop and turns on him. He can see the silhouette of the other man against the lights in the house and he reaches out to gently touch Daryl's cheek. "What did Merle want to talk to you about?" he asks.

Daryl huffs. "He wants to leave," he says, angry and low. Rick blinks. Granted, he hasn't spent much time around the man, but he had gotten the impression that Merle was rather enjoying himself. He's a big, fat cat with no end of mice to toy with here. "Wants me to pack up and go, but I won't leave without you, and I know you won't leave without Carl."

Rick licks his lips and tries not to let out a possessive, angry sound at the thought of someone trying to persuade Daryl to leave his side. Even if it's Daryl's own brother – there's a lineage of ownership now. Rick belongs to Daryl, and Daryl to Rick, and everyone else can wait their damn turn for a claim of their own.

"And what did you say?"

"Told him to go fuck himself," Daryl replies, and he sounds icy but Rick feels the uncomfortable brush of anxiety in his voice. Merle is, after all, Daryl's brother – and a fellow soldier in the trenches of their childhood war, and there's something to be said for a bond forged in fires that potent. "Dunno what got into him, but he said he wants to leave." Daryl shifts his weight and looks over Rick's shoulder. Rick turns so that he can join Daryl in staring. "Makes me nervous," Daryl confesses. "He's normally got good instinct about shit like this."

The spiritual high. Rick presses his lips together and looks back at Daryl. "He still think I'm right?" he asks.

Daryl scoffs. "Don't think it matters. He wants to leave."

"Where will he go?"

"Wherever he pleases, I reckon," Daryl says. Then he sighs and Rick sees his head drop. Rick steps forward, cradling Daryl's head in his hands, before he slides his good hand to the back of Daryl's neck and rests their foreheads together. "Don't matter to me."

Rick manages a weak smile. "How long you gonna act like you don't give a shit what he does?" he asks.

Daryl shakes his head and pulls away. "You gonna sleep, or perv on the barn of walkers all night?" he says, and Rick sighs and allows Daryl to steer the conversation away from the subject of Merle. He thinks about approaching the man and trying to talk some sense into him himself, but decides against it. He's sure it wouldn't do any of them any favors.

 

 

 

 

"Ed? Ed! Where are you?!"

Rick is woken by the sound of Carol's frantic cries, and he shoves himself to his feet from where he's curled up next to Daryl. Daryl is already awake and on his feet as Rick stands. They share a look and then run over to Carol as she frantically cups her hands to her mouth and shouts for her husband.

"When'd you last see him?" Rick asks as they slow to a stop next to her. Carol looks at them with wide, teary eyes. There's red around her neck and Rick hears Daryl let out a low growl.

"He…he got up in the middle of the night," Carol says, awkwardly adjusting her clothes out of the frantic need to pick at something. The more she moves, the more bruised skin is revealed around her wrists and throat and Rick honestly fears what might happen to the man when and if he comes back unharmed. "Said he had to pee, and I went back to sleep and when I woke up he wasn't here. His…his sleeping bag is cold."

And she puts her hand to her mouth and starts to cry again. Rick looks around and sees Shane and Lori approaching, Shane's gun out but not raised. "What happened?" he demands.

"Ed's gone missing," Rick says.

"I can find him," Daryl says, looking down at the ground. His eyes are on the grass and Rick watches as he follows some trail he must be able to see through it to the forest. Yes, there are footprints in the grass, but they soon disappear once they get a few yards away from the lean-to. "I can track him. Dude left a trail in fuckin' neon."

"Please," Carol says, and reaches forward to clutch at Daryl's hand in both of hers. She's shaking and Daryl looks at her, blinking in shock as though he never expected her to actually touch him and wants to flinch away. He doesn't, but Rick senses it's a close thing. " _Please_ find him. I can't lose him and…and Sophia…"

"Daryl can track down anythin'," Rick says with what he hopes is a reassuring smile. Carol smiles back, though it's shaky, and Lori pulls her away and into a hug so that she can cry. Daryl presses his lips together and nods at Rick, before he turns and starts to head into the forest. Shane and Rick follow him for a moment.

"Best if you guys don't come with," Daryl says over his shoulder. "You're too loud and I don't need to be worryin' about your sorry asses too." Shane hesitates and Rick keeps walking, before Daryl turns and fixes him with a look. " _Stay_."

Rick licks his lips, a thread sigh leaving him as he shifts his weight, anxious. "I don't…" He looks over his shoulder and Shane lifts his hands in surrender, turning away to give them some privacy and rejoining Lori and Carol by the lean-to.

Daryl comes back to him and rests his hand at the back of Rick's neck, forcing them to face each other. "I'll be back before you know it," he says.

"You can't leave me," Rick replies, and he doesn't know whether he means _alone_ or _with him_ or anything else. "What if you don't -? How can I -?"

Daryl smiles and silences Rick with a kiss. It's short but it does the job of shutting Rick up. "I'll be back before nightfall," he promises, and Rick presses his lips together and nods. It feels like his skin burns where Daryl is touching him and continues to ache once the touch is gone, as Daryl lets go and turns away and disappears into the treeline.

Rick sighs, at once despondent and anxious, and goes to the RV. Glenn is sitting next to T-Dog's limp body. There's a blanket wrapped around him. Someone put his wool hat back on. There's blood soaking through from the inside.

Rick presses his lips together and meets Glenn's eyes when he man looks up. "Need help digging a grave?" he asks quietly. Glenn's eyes are watery and wide when he nods. Rick nods back and leaves to try and find Otis so they can borrow some shovels. As he walks by the collection of cars, he notices that Merle's truck is missing. Daryl's bike is propped against the back of the bruiser.

 

 

Daryl comes back in less than three hours, much to Rick's immense relief. He knows he looks no better than a puppy racing to their master when he hears Daryl's whistle. It doesn't matter – Daryl is _alive_ and _here_ and Rick's soul lights up as soon as he sees the familiar silhouette breach the horizon.

He slows to a stop once he's close enough to see Daryl's face. He knows Daryl had come back alone, but it occurs to him as he approaches that Daryl is _alone_ , and way before nightfall. So either the trail ran cold, or he definitely found Ed.

His eyes run over Daryl's body and he's not sure if he expects to find blood there or not. He counts the bolts in Daryl's bow and wonders how many he left with.

Daryl catches him looking. "He was already dead when I found 'im," he says. There's no accusation in his voice – he doesn't blame Rick for what he assumes. "Well, half-dead. I made him stop movin', though."

Rick presses his lips together and looks over his shoulder towards the lean-to. "Was he bit?"

Daryl hesitates and Rick looks back at him. He takes a step closer and lowers his voice. "I'm going to tell everyone he was," he says. "But no. He wasn't bit."

Rick frowns. Something cold wraps around the base of his skull. "Was he…?"

Daryl presses his lips together and nods, once. "Someone followed him in," he says. "There was a fight. Someone big as Ed, gotta be a touch S.O.B. to bring him down. He wasn't far in, neither, so we'd'a heard gunshots."

There are only two people on the farm big enough and with motive enough to want to kill Ed. Rick feels that coldness creeping down his spine. "I was with you all night," he says quietly. "Wasn't I?"

"Shane was with Lori all night," Daryl replies. "Wasn't he?"

Rick turns around and looks towards the RV, where he can see Shane with Dale, ducked under the vehicle's hood and tinkering around. He doesn't see Carol or Lori anywhere. "Even if she knows," Rick says, "she'll deny it."

Daryl nods. "Like I said, I'm gonna tell everyone he got bit," he says with a sigh, and Rick turns back to look at him. "But you keep that third eye sharp on 'im, okay? Even if he ain't War, he killin' people in the dead of night and that ain't someone I trust to have around."

Rick nods. The cold in his spine flares outward, talons digging in, and tugs sharply on the back of his heart. Daryl watches him for another moment, before he sighs and shifts his weight. "I gotta tell 'er," he says.

"You put him down?" Rick asks, falling into step beside Daryl as they walk towards the house. Daryl nods. "Good. If she insists, we can get his body and bury him next to T-Dog."

Daryl looks up. "T-Dog died?"

Rick nods. "Passed during the night. Glenn ended it."

"That sucks."

"That's the world now."

"Hopefully not forever."

Rick smiles sadly, and reaches out to squeeze Daryl's arm. "Definitely not forever."


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stufffff..........and thaaaaaaaangs............  
> Please note this story is now officially explicit.

Rick stands watch while Daryl tells Carol what happened to her husband. She falls to her knees, hands to her mouth as she cries, and he sees Daryl stand for an awkward moment, before he crouches down in front of her and hands her a single white flower. He says something Rick can't hear, and though Carol is still crying, he sees her manage a weak, watery smile.

When he comes back, his eyes are red around the edges and he clears his throat awkwardly. "She doesn't want us to bring his body back," he says, shoving the strap of his crossbow further up his shoulder in an anxious gesture. "I gotta…I gotta go somewhere."

"Alone?" Rick asks.

Daryl nods. "With you."

Rick smiles slightly and nods, following Daryl into the woods. They don't go in the same direction of Ed's body, but veer off as though heading to the highway. The trees rise up to greet them and swallow them whole and soon Rick can't see any trace of the Greene farm through the foliage.

Daryl reaches the place where they'd put empty cups up on a log for Rick to practice shooting. He stops, then lets out a low growl and puts his crossbow down. Rick watches him, his ears open for any signs of approaching walkers but his eyes riveted on the way Daryl's muscles, tense and angry, move under his skin.

"What was that flower?" he asks.

Daryl scoffs. "Story I heard once," he says. He looks at Rick over his shoulder and then goes back to glaring at the log. "Trail of Mother's tears, they fell and grew them flowers. Thought it was the kind of sentimental shit she might get some comfort out of."

"Just Carol?" Rick presses, taking a step forward.

Daryl straightens and looks at him. "Yeah," he bites out, aggressively. "Just Carol."

"You don't think Sophia's alive."

Daryl presses his lips together and he looks away. "I know the odds," he says. "I made it when I was eight in the woods, but I didn't have walkers to deal with. So…I know the odds. So does she. Don't matter."

"Hope's a powerful thing," Rick offers. "It would be wrong to abuse it."

"You tryin' to start a fight with me?" Daryl says, throwing his arms out to either side and lifting his eyes to meet Rick's again. "Don't try and fuckin' psychoanalyze me. Got enough of that from everyone else." Rick meets his gaze steadily and Daryl abruptly deflates with a huff. "I don't wanna talk about kids dyin'," he adds quietly.

"Okay," Rick says, taking another step forward until he can touch Daryl. "Do you wanna talk at all?"

Daryl meets his eyes, ready, like a tiger measuring the distance between it and its prey. "Not really," he replies. Rick nods and presses his lips together, his hands finding Daryl's arms and sliding up to his shoulders. Daryl heaves another shaky breath and leans against him, foreheads meeting, noses knocking together, before Rick kisses him.

Rick desperately wants to speak to him, to come up with _some_ reassuring words that would ease Daryl's mind and calm the tension in his arms. Nothing comes to mind, though – Death does not grant him the words he needs and he cannot come up with them on his own. Not that it seems to matter; Daryl seems intent to steal the air from Rick's lungs and all conscious thought from his mind.

Daryl pushes at his shoulders and Rick's back hits the trunk of a strong tree. He feels the bark crumble under his muscles, biting at his skin through his shirt. Daryl's hands slide to his flanks to hold him steady as Daryl slots himself into place against Rick's chest.

Rick feels a shiver run down his spine, heat sparkling in his stomach and spreading out. He wraps a hand around the back of Daryl's neck and lets his lips part to make way for Daryl's tongue. He hears Daryl let out a low growl, pushing more harshly against him.

So far their touches have been chaste but no less passionate. Rick remembers the time Daryl held him after his nightmare in that abandoned house. It has the same raw, needy feeling. Touch-starved, both of them desperate to feel alive and safe in each other's arms.

Rick's good hand runs down Daryl's chest, fisting for a moment in his shirt before he lets it rest on Daryl's stomach. Daryl's shirt has rucked up, and Rick's fingers can sink just a little under his belt when he feels Daryl breathe in.

"Is this what you need?" he asks, his voice soft with a desperate need to give it to Daryl. He wants to _feel_ Daryl, alive and whole under his hands. Daryl is trembling in his arms and Rick feels the compulsive need to soothe and calm him like a wild horse.

Daryl takes in a shaky breath, licking his lips. His eyes are incredibly dark and half-hidden under his hair. " _Yeah_ ," he whispers, and Rick smiles and nods. " _Please_."

"Okay," Rick murmurs. Daryl is skinny enough that even with his belt Rick can slide his hand down, fingers brushing against the thick thatch of hair. Daryl lets out another shaky growl, letting go of Rick just long enough to undo his belt and his jeans, opening them and letting Rick's hand slide down and wrap around his cock.

He's wet at the head, smooth under Rick's palm and Rick shivers, heat rushing from the base of his skull all the way down. Rick keeps his grip loose at first, sliding all the way down, his mouth dry at the feeling of the warm, smooth weight of Daryl's cock in his hand.

Daryl growls, hips rolling as he tries to fuck into Rick's hand, and closes his eyes. He kisses Rick again, hungry and rough, and Rick lets out a higher moan in response, his bandaged hand tightening around the back of Daryl's neck.

"Feel good?" he growls, and Daryl nods frantically, kissing Rick with all the desperate affection Rick feels in his own head. He tightens his grip on Daryl's cock and twists his wrist, earning a sweet whine from the other man. "Good. Wanna make you feel good, Daryl."

"You do." Daryl's hands find Rick's flanks again, digging into his flesh through his shirt. " _Fuck_ , Rick -."

Rick kisses him again, then pushes them around so that Daryl's back is against the tree. He ruts against Daryl, eager to feel every inch of the man he can while Daryl clings desperately to him and muffles low whimpers against his mouth.

Rick bites Daryl's lower lip, pulling away just enough that he can see the man's dark eyes. "Wanna use my mouth," he whispers, and Daryl's cock twitches in his hand. "You okay with that?"

Daryl nods, licking his pinked lips, and Rick smiles and steals one more kiss just because he has no willpower to fight the urge, and lets go of Daryl's neck so that he can sink to his knees.

" _Fuck_ ," Daryl growls, and Rick wonders for a fleeting moment how many other men have done this for Daryl, before he pushes the thought from his mind. It doesn't matter. Daryl is _his_ , body and soul. With the way Daryl is looking at him, Rick feels as powerful as he did the night this first started. Like nothing can get in his way.

He pulls the halves of Daryl's jeans apart and eases his cock out, one hand still wrapped around the base, and kneels up so that he can suck the head of Daryl's cock into his mouth. One of Daryl's hands fly to his hair, fisting tightly, the fingertips of the other brushing against Rick's neck and shoulder. The touches there burn, lighting something up in Rick from the inside that makes him feel like the strongest man alive.

He licks over the head of Daryl's cock and Daryl lets out a low whimper that Rick takes as a sign of encouragement. He does it again and the hand in his hair tightens. He squeezes the base of Daryl's cock and sinks down, trying to take as much into his mouth as he can. He can't go far, inexperienced as he is, but feels giddy with the thought that they have the rest of their lives for him to become a master at it. He wants to _ruin_ Daryl, to keep his mind and his eyes from straying even though he doubts Daryl has the will to do either. He wants Daryl to think of him, if they are ever separated again, in the dead of night with his hand as his only company, of Rick on his knees for him, sucking him down. He wants Daryl to think of how desperately he'd needed Rick then, and how desperately Rick needs him at any given moment.

He sucks on the head of Daryl's cock and lets his thumb sweep along the sensitive spot just below the head like he personally enjoys and Daryl lets out a rough sound, hips rolling forward in a smooth motion that Rick does his best to accept. Daryl doesn't thrust deeply, understanding that Rick can't take him that far, but Rick can feel the juddering energy in his hips, the frantic need to _fuck_ burning through him.

"Rick -," Daryl warns, his hand tugging on Rick's hair. Rick pulls off and looks up at him, hand stroking with the slick from his mouth. Daryl has his head tilted back, chest heaving, neck red with arousal. Rick shoves himself to his feet, sliding along Daryl's chest, and licks a path from Daryl's neck, to his jaw, to his mouth. Daryl stifles a rough whimper against his mouth, his stomach tensing. His cock is leaking in earnest now.

"What do you need?" Rick asks. His head is burning, like every part of him is tied to Daryl's body. He doesn't know if he'll be able to breathe again until Daryl comes. Daryl's eyes flutter open, black with lust, and he bites his lip and grabs desperately at Rick's hair.

"I – I don't know," Daryl gasps. He's close, Rick can tell he's close. _Fuck_ , Daryl is so beautiful like this. Daryl shakes his head and lets out a low growl. "Fuckin' _talk_ to me."

And unlike before, Rick knows exactly what to say now. The words come to him easily; "You make me feel like I can do anythin'," he whispers. Daryl shivers, whimpering softly. "When you touch me, when you're next to me…. I know nothin' gonna stop us, darlin'. I -."

 _Love you_.

Daryl closes his eyes and rests his forehead against Rick's shoulder. He shudders – one long, slow thing that Rick feels in every part of his own soul. Daryl's fingers rake through Rick's hair and across the nape of his neck and the touch stings but in a good way, like Daryl is soothing some hurt Rick didn't even know was there.

"Please, Daryl," Rick whispers. He runs his hand up Daryl's cock and tightens his grip at the head, twisting his hand and Daryl sighs. His cock twitches in Rick's hand, warm and _hard_ and _ready_. "Come for me, darlin'. Show me how much you need me, too."

" _God_ ," Daryl whispers, but it may as well have been Rick's name he called with how hard it hits Rick in the chest. He thrusts his hips forward and his cock catches on the material of Rick's gun holster and then he's coming – he's silent when he does it, though whether that's because that's how he is or out of some sense of self-preservation and lack of desire to draw attention to themselves, Rick doesn't know.

He kisses Daryl, Daryl's mouth slack against his lips. Daryl lets out a weak moan as Rick continues to stroke him slowly, easing out every last piece of Daryl's orgasm he can muster. Daryl's knees shake against Rick's and his stomach tenses up and sinks in, and then Rick lets go. He wipes his hand on his jeans where Daryl made a mess of them and then threads his fingers through Daryl's hair, deepening their kiss.

Daryl clings to him as weakly as a newborn lamb, small and needy in his arms. Rick feels his own blood burning with arousal but he's so satisfied by Daryl's orgasm that he isn't sure he even needs to get off right now.

Daryl's hands run down his chest and fist in his shirt, pulling them closer together. Then, when they run out of air, he draws back from the kiss with a breathless gasp and rests their foreheads together. "You fuckin' ruin me, Rick," he whispers, and Rick smiles, triumphant.

He takes in a slow breath, blinking once. "Will you let me say it?" he asks.

Daryl blinks at him, licking his lips. His hands tighten even more in Rick's clothing until Rick feels the material tight against his shoulders, straining to stay in one piece.

Daryl shakes his head after a moment. "No," he replies. "But I know. And I…do. Too."

Rick smiles. How can he resist kissing Daryl in that moment? He doesn't. "I know," he says quietly, thankful that even with the Hell of the world and their immediate group, they can have this safe haven, even if it's only destined to become a memory at some point. "I know."

 

 

 

When they return it's almost nightfall again. They have a campfire set up near the RV and Rick and Daryl join the rest of the group. It feels noticeably empty, without Carl and T-Dog and Ed there. Carol is curled up close to Lori, Shane on her other side, and Rick and Daryl take the space between Shane and Dale.

The rest of them look up and give them nods as they approach. If anyone notices their ruffled state or the stain on Rick's jeans, they don't mention it.

"Herschel came out and said a blessing for T-Dog," Lori offers after a moment of silence that is not exactly tense, but not companionable either. Andrea is still sending glares Shane's way whenever she thinks someone might notice her doing it, and Rick is glad that Dale convinced her to stay, if only for the fact that it means they have two more people to maintain the vehicles, keep watch, and makes runs.

"That was nice of him," Rick says with a nod. He reaches down to idly play with the grass between his legs where he's sitting. Glenn looks exhausted, his face ashen in the firelight. It is then that Rick notices Maggie sitting with them, and he blinks and sends another nod her way that she meets, her jaw clenched and her eyes red. She's sitting very close to Glenn and something like familiarity twists its way up behind Rick's jaw.

"We need a new hose for the RV," Dale says after a moment. "Damn thing won't stay cool enough to be useful for very long if we and when we move on."

"Hopefully that won't happen," Glenn says. His eyes flash to Rick.

"If Herschel insists that we gotta go, I'll leave," Rick says quietly. He hears Shane make an aggravated sound. "I'm the one he's got a problem with, after all."

"Beth's been wearing him down," Maggie supplies, shifting her weight so she's sitting sideways on the ground, one arm propping her up. She shakes her head and huffs a laugh. "She's as stubborn as mama was."

Rick smiles, but doesn't answer. Carol is still clutching the flower Daryl gave her, tightly in both hands and holding it in her lap. The redness they'd seen around her neck and wrists has faded into a set of pink marks. Rick hopes they fade soon. The sooner they get past the worst of their scars, the better.

"Maybe we should try and contact that refugee group again," Lori says. "Get a bigger group. That way, at least, if we do have to leave, there'll be more of us."

"It's not a bad idea," Shane says with a nod. "At least making allies."

 _Allies_. Rick blinks at the word, frowning. "You think we'll need _allies_?" he asks, lifting his head and looking over at his friend. Shane regards him coolly. He doesn't realize what he said, maybe, or doesn't understand how it sounds. "We're not fightin' anyone."

"Anyone who has a problem with you has a problem with me," Shane says, his jaw clenching as he gives a single nod of his head.

"It's not unwarranted, Shane," Rick murmurs.

"Still."

Before Rick can reply, Daryl reaches out and puts a hand on his shoulder. When Rick looks at him he gives a quick, _very_ subtle shake of his head. It's such a small motion that Rick wouldn't have known to see it if he didn't know Daryl. He sighs and runs a hand through his hair.

"I'm tired," Carol murmurs after a while. She offers a sad smile. "I'm going to go to bed."

"I'll join you," Lori says, and stands. Shane holds onto her hand until she's too far away and then the two women disappear from the firelight and towards the lean-to. Rick hears Troublemaker give a soft whicker of greeting to them as they pass.

"I'll take first watch," Dale says after another moment. Glenn nods and stands as well, joining him on top of the RV to keep watch, and Maggie leaves, so that it's just Rick, Daryl, Shane and Andrea gathered around the fire.

Andrea is still glaring at Shane and the tension seems to grow. Finally Rick looks over at her. "I'm glad you stayed," he says.

Andrea blinks at him, then rolls her eyes. "Couldn't leave," she replies. "Damn RV piece of shit won't move."

"Still," Rick says, offering her a small smile. "We gotta stick together in a world like this. I know you can handle yourself."

She huffs, and stands. "Goodnight," she says, before striding off to sleep in the RV.

Shane rolls his eyes once he hears the door close. "Don't gotta coddle her," he says. "Bitch got T-Dog killed. Poor bastard."

"I thought you just said we needed allies," Rick replies mildly, shredding some more grass.

"Yeah, _good_ ones who can fight worth a damn," Shane says with a snort. Rick tries not to think about how he sounds like a man planning for a war. This is just how Shane thinks – Rick remembers the hours of strategy he would put into a stake-out, or a video game. This is just how Shane _is_.

Of course, War would choose a worthy vessel.

His eyes flash to Daryl, who is looking studiously at the fire. It is a mesmerizing sight. Rick clears his throat and looks back at Shane and makes sure he's watching his friend's face carefully. "Ed didn't die from a walker bite," he says.

He feels Daryl tense beside him and Shane looks at him, eyebrows raised in shock. "What?" he demands, immediately frowning. "But Daryl said -."

"He lied, to protect Carol's feelings," Rick interrupts. "Someone followed him in. Killed him."

"Shit." Shane wipes a hand over his mouth and licks his lips. And Rick can't tell for the life of him whether it's a carefully choreographed dance, or genuine. Shane looks at Rick and seems to be watching him for the same kind of reactions. "I mean, I'm not gonna miss the guy, but I wouldn't think…"

"Wouldn't you?" Rick whispers, deadly-soft. His spine feels cold.

Shane's eyes narrow. "You accusin' me of somethin', Grimes?" he asks, just as quietly.

"Not yet," Rick says. He's going to be honest about it. "But there's not a lot of people here who could take Ed down, much less have the guts to do it, or _want_ to do it."

"Maybe you sleep-killed him," Shane says. His tone is mild but Rick still flinches. Of course, it's possible – it's entirely possible. And wouldn't that just be some kind of terrible justice? Rick remembers, before he was sent to the facility, how he would go for long stretches of time where his conscious memory was just…blank. He'd zone out, and come to, usually with his own blood on his hands and another message on the wall. "Or maybe that brother o' Daryl's iced him before he took off."

Rick blinks, but forces himself not to look at Daryl. He's sure Daryl's considered that, too, but that seems like too much empathy for Merle.

"I didn't do it," Shane says with the same finality of dirt on a coffin. "But good riddance."

Then he gets up and picks up a bottle of water and pours it over the fire. The darkness envelopes them abruptly and Rick shivers at the sudden cold. Daryl moves closer to him and Rick leans into his warmth. Shane leaves without another word so that just the two of them remain.

"That went well," Daryl says after a moment. Rick huffs. "What'd'ya think?"

"I don't know," Rick replies honestly, shaking his head. "He seemed surprised, and I never thought of him as a particularly good actor."

Then again, maybe it's not Shane pulling the strings anymore. Rick hates this.

"You should sleep," Daryl says. His hand slides onto Rick's thigh and grabs one of his hands, lacing their fingers together. Rick closes his eyes as he feels Daryl brush a gentle kiss against his shoulder. "Come with me."

Rick nods, and follows Daryl back to the field. They sleep curled up tightly together, one of Daryl's hands still holding Rick's, his head on Rick's shoulder, and Troublemaker keeping a steady watch over them both.


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a short chapter and a late one and I'm sorry.  
> I don't remember if I named Beth's horse before but its name is Bailey now.

"We got a problem."

Rick looks up to see Shane standing over him, just close enough that he can block out the glare of the sun with his head. Still, Rick winces, and sets his machete down from where he'd finally gotten around to cleaning it of Famine's blood. The blade is probably too dull to do anything cleanly, but the spikes combined with enough force make it a useful weapon nonetheless.

He lifts his hand to shield his eyes and Shane huffs and sits down next to him and Rick lowers his hand again. "What kinda problem?" he asks. He wonders if Shane is going to bring up the fight they had a few nights ago, or if he's going to brush it aside just like the time Rick pulled his gun on him. Or the time Rick challenged him over his shooting. Or any other time Rick has let his paranoia and delusions turn him into a less-than-stellar friend.

Shane brings his knees up and rests his elbows on them, his hands folding against his lips. He taps the side of his forefinger against his mouth and sends a sideways glance Rick's way, like he's gearing himself up for an explosive reaction. Rick goes tense. "Carl," he says.

Rick's eyes widen. "What about him?" he asks.

"He's been out for too long, not getting enough food in him, Herschel says," Shane replies with a sigh. He rubs his hands through his hair, scratching at his scalp. "I know we got the stuff we need for an IV but we need some of those bags of shit they give coma people – like what they gave you to make sure you didn't, you know, just waste away."

Rick nods, slowly, trying to calm down his racing heart. "Okay," he says. "How is that a problem? We'll make a run in one of the cars."

"We ain't got any coolers, nothin' portable, and the RV's got a fridge but that won't run long enough for us to make it," Shane replies with another shake of his head. "Plus, I don't know about you but I don't know what the fuck I would even be looking for, or where to even _go_. And Herschel comin' with us got about the same odds as the lottery, you know?"

Rick nods, licking his lips and looking away from Shane as he tries to think. "Daryl would know," he says, finally. "What to look for, at least. I've seen him change out medications and shit like that. And there was one guy…he drank bleach and was out for a while, and before he learned how to eat again he got bag-fed. Daryl should know enough to at least identify it."

"Still, we gotta get a hose for the RV," Shane says. "Not really sure what I'm looking for there, either. And…" He trails off for long enough that Rick looks back at him. Shane looks over his shoulder, towards the encampment of cars, and then slides closer. Rick resists the urge to protect his neck. "I don't really want Dale doin' out there, you know? Or Andrea. He's too old, she's too trigger happy. 'Sides, he's the only one who knows how to rig the damn thing. Know he's teaching Glenn, but…"

"I get it," Rick replies. "We need someone disposable but not useless." He doesn't mean the words to come out as harshly as they do, but Shane straightens up and blinks in surprise. He frowns and Rick sees him about to protest but he raises a hand to stop him. "I didn't mean it like that. I'm agreeing with you." Then he sighs.

"'Scuse me."

They look up as Otis approaches. He's holding his cap in his hands, wringing it nervously. Rick blinks at him and nods in greeting and Otis visibly flinches. He probably thinks Rick _or_ Shane would sooner kill him as look at him – truthfully, Rick does feel anger over the fact that his child got shot, but he thinks it stems more from the unrealistic idea that he could have prevented it had he been there. Miriam would have loved to talk about that.

"What'd'ya need, Otis?" Rick asks when Shane seems to have taken the role of 'glaring sidekick' onto his shoulders.

Otis shifts his weight. "Well, I couldn't help overhearin' your friend Dale there saying he needed a hose for the RV, and well, I know it ain't quite the same but I got years dealin' with tractors and the like under my belt, and I'm pretty confident I could get the right kind. And I know where to find materials like that."

Rick blinks and Shane visibly relaxes beside him. "Yeah?" Rick asks, before he looks over at Shane.

Shane nods. "Okay. We'll go talk to Dale, then you'n'I'll go on a run." Otis' eyes widen but he nods. Rick thinks he probably didn't expect them to agree so readily, but the man had volunteered, and they need the RV working to get what Carl needs.

Otis leaves after another moment, heading towards the RV, and Rick looks at Shane out of the corner of his eye. He picks his machete back up and goes back to cleaning it, picking the flakes of dried blood from between its teeth. "Do you think that's wise?" he asks.

Shane looks at him. "What?"

"Just you and Otis?" Rick continues, grunting when he digs his nail underneath a stain and scratches at it until it gives, before he wipes it away with the wet cloth. "Small numbers, I get it, but what if you run into a herd? Plus I doubt he's high on your list of favorite people right now."

Rick can sense Shane's eyes narrow and he looks at his friend. "Are you just gonna be like this all the time?" Shane whispers, as quietly as he can muster but Rick feels like Shane is desperately fighting the urge not to yell. That's the kind of person Shane is, to make himself bigger and louder when threatened in the hopes of intimidating the other threat away. Of course, that's not to say he can't be deadly and quiet too, but it doesn't come as naturally to him as it does to Rick and Daryl, who have had to rely on other means most of their lives.

"Be like what?" Rick asks, though he knows the answer.

"Just…" Shane makes a frustrated sound and gestures to Rick. "I'm comin' over here tryin' to make a _plan_ , and I tell you that I'm willin' to defend you when it comes to Herschel lettin' you stay here and you act like I'm, I don't know, trying to kill you or something! It's like you don't trust me or anythin'."

"I entrusted you with Lori and Carl," Rick says. "And you took care of them. Damn sight better than I could've."

"But you don't trust _me_ ," Shane finishes with a sigh. "Not anymore. Not like you do _Daryl_."

Rick tenses and he feels a low snarl of anger building up in his chest. Threats against himself he can handle, but he will _not_ tolerate anyone speaking ill of Daryl. "Leave him out of this," he hisses, lifting his head to glare at Shane.

"Why should I?" Shane challenges. He turns so that he can face Rick more fully. "He's your buddy now, right? You trust him more than you trust me, after _everything_."

"Just as you trust Lori more than you trust me," Rick replies, the words sharp. Shane looks stunned. "I understand why. I get shot, go into a coma, and wake up spoutin' all kinds of crazy shit but I've said it before, Shane – I was fucking _right_. I was _right_ about the walkers, I was _right_ about Famine, and Pestilence. And Daryl believes me, and he trusts me, and -. And it's like you and Lori now, alright? That what you wanna hear?"

Shane shakes his head. "C'mon, man," he says weakly. "You know I don't… _care_ about shit like that but…"

He trails off and Rick closes his eyes and sets his machete down. He rubs a hand over his face and through his hair. "I know I'm…" He shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Shane." He opens his eyes and looks back over at Shane, who is watching him like he's helpless. "I know I'm the one that changed. I know my brain ain't wired right anymore. But it's because I saw it comin' that we were…" He shakes his head again and sighs. "It could'a gone so different, man. You and I could'a died just –" he snaps his fingers "- like that, on a stake-out or an arrest. Lori and Carl would have made it as far as next county, _maybe_." He looks back at Shane. "But you were with them, which meant you got them out. And I was with Daryl, which means he got me out. It had to be that way."

Shane traps his tongue between his lips before a moment, before he heaves out a breath. Rick isn't sure how Shane is taking his words – if they even make any sense outside of his own head.

"I know I've been a shitty friend to you," Rick continues.

Shane shakes his head. "Nah, man," he replies, holding up a hand. "You got your own shit to deal with."

"I just keep…" Rick bites his tongue and shakes his head, looking back out towards the field. Daryl is there, in perfect line of sight. He's washing Troublemaker and Bailey, making sure Troublemaker's bite wound didn't get infected. Beth is there with him, grooming her horse and cleaning out their hooves. Rick is glad that he looks at them and doesn't feel his stomach go tight with jealousy. "I'm sorry about what I said. About Ed."

Shane hums. "I mean, you're not wrong," he replies, making Rick's gaze snap to him. "There's only, what? You, me, Daryl… _maybe_ Otis or Dale if they got a mind to, that could take a guy that big and that mean out. Then Merle, of course. I mean…" He huffs a laugh and runs a hand through his hair. "Just cop thinkin'. Don't blame ya."

Rick nods. "You and Lori were keeping watch all night," he says, and Shane nods. "I was with Daryl in the field." Shane nods again. "I suppose it must have been Merle. And then he took off so we'd never have to confront him about it."

"Almost noble, even if he was a no-good sonuvabitch," Shane says.

Rick huffs, shaking his head. "He saved my life," he says. "Went with me'n'Daryl back to the facility. Dunno if he just thought he might be able to get good shit from there, but he still went." He shrugs one shoulder.

Shane hums, then pushes himself to his feet. "I guess I'll see you around," he says, and Rick feels an awful pang in his chest like Shane is telling him goodbye. He looks up and then shoves himself to his feet and catches Shane's arm as the man starts to walk away from him.

"Shane," he begins, but then he stops. Just like with Daryl in the woods, he can't think of a single thing to say. Shane watches him, his eyes dark, before he sighs and seems to deflate and turns back to stand facing Rick.

Rick lets his hand slide up and takes Shane by the back of his neck, pulling him into a tight hug that Shane returns. It feels final, and desperate in a way he can't name. Like maybe Shane is starting to realize that Rick is his enemy, too.

They part after another moment and Rick holds Shane's head in both hands, resting their foreheads together. Then he closes his eyes, swallowing hard, and lets him go. "I'll see you around," he says, and Shane nods. His eyes are brighter than before, but then he turns away so Rick can't see his face, and jogs down towards the RV to join Dale and Otis.

Rick goes up the hill to join Beth and Daryl, who have finished washing the horses and have now taken brushes to their mane and tails, trying their best to dig out the knots until something more manageable. Even though Rick doubts the horses have any semblance of vanity, he doesn't know enough about horses to know if they can tell when they have uncomfortable tangles in their hair.

Beth's horse, Bailey, has a halter on and a rope that he can see Beth is holding to make sure the horse isn't persuaded to wander.

Troublemaker whinnies softly as Rick approaches, pushing his muzzle into Rick's hair and snorting wetly against his palm. "Charming," Rick says, wiping his hand on his shirt. He hears Daryl huff a laugh and ducks under the horse's head to come around to his other side. He rests a hand on Troublemaker's shoulder, his eyes drawn to the angry-red outline of the bite he took. It stopped bleeding long ago and now that Daryl has cleaned him it looks a lot less extreme than it did.

Daryl raises an eyebrow at him when Rick remains silent, before he turns and runs the brush across Troublemaker's mane and then down, separating two locks so that he can groom out the knots in the piece he's holding. Beth is sending them both looks when she thinks neither of them are looking. She looks anxious, uncomfortable in the silence.

Finally Rick has mercy on her and breaks it. "Shane's going with Otis to try and get a hose for the RV," he tells them. "Then I was hoping you and I could go try and find some IV bags for Carl. He's still asleep, and we need to find a way to feed him."

Daryl frowns, worrying on his lower lip. "Not really sure what to look for," he says, tugging on another long strand of mane. "I mean, _where_ to look for it. Could figure out the rest, I guess."

And that's the issue, isn't it? Even if they get the RV up and running, it won't do them much good if they don't even know where to go to find what Carl needs. Rick had hoped that he would be awake by now. He knows time has been running differently from the way he is perceiving it – Pestilence's run had told him that – but still, they've been on the Greene farm for a little over a week, and Rick, Daryl and Merle had been here even longer.

"There's a medical supply store in the next town over," Beth offers, making Daryl turn so they both can look at her. She shrugs one shoulder. "It was like a pharmacy, but it had other stuff too. It's a good place to check."

Rick nods. "When Shane and Otis get back, then," he says. Just as he speaks he hears one of the cars start and steps back so that Troublemaker isn't blocking his way. He sees Shane and Otis get into the red Honda and pull away from the rest of the cars. As they drive up the road and pass the field, Rick lifts his hand in a wave that Shane returns before he goes back to focusing on driving.

Rick feels Daryl step close to him, under the horse's neck. "You look worried," he says quietly, so that Beth won't hear.

Rick swallows. How can he say that he can't help feeling that – when Shane returns, he'll be coming back alone. Picking them off, one by one, like a fox in a chicken coop. Until there's no one left to stand between him and Rick. Rick reaches out and grabs Daryl's hand. "Don't leave me alone with him."

"Wasn't plannin' on it," Daryl replies, but he squeezes Rick's hand back.


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very faint allusions to miscarriage and difficult pregnancies in this chapter. Also fighting.

Shane and Otis don't come back that night, and Rick tries his best not to worry. He can't though. He feels like a caged tiger, pacing anxiously through the field, and towards the lean-to, and then back to the road. Troublemaker follows him at a slow walk, providing silent comfort. Daryl just sits in the field, his back to one of the fence posts, watching him between turns sharpening their knives.

He stops when he feels someone approaching him and turns around to see Lori walking towards him. Troublemaker snorts and trots away, deeming his guardianship done when there's someone else by Rick, and Rick stays still as Lori walks up the small hill and towards him. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Daryl lift his head but knows they're too far apart for him to overhear.

Lori comes to a stop a little way from Rick, her cheeks pink from exertion. The rest of her is pale, sick with worry. Rick's eyes drop to her stomach, unable to stay anywhere else, and she crosses her arms over her stomach self-consciously.

"I know what you're thinking," she says.

"I don't think you do," he replies, but lifts his eyes.

She presses her lips together and sighs. "We were being careful," she says. "You know how difficult it was to conceive Carl. I thought…"

Rick remembers. For a while they'd thought Lori was barren. Turns out she has a lot of stress and anxiety. It's kept her thin throughout the years and made her cycle uneven. She had been taking medication for it, to keep herself regular, and gone off it when they'd been trying to have a baby. Even then it had taken months for her to get pregnant. Rick wonders how likely it is that this child will even make it through the first trimester. After all, as thin and worried as she must be now, her condition is far from optimal.

"I'm not angry," Rick says, honestly. She bites her lower lip and lifts her eyes from where they'd been focused on his boots. She looks surprised and Rick wonders how long it will be before anyone believes that he harbors no feelings of ill will or anger or jealousy towards or for her. He and Lori had become more like roommates and friends towards the end of their marriage and then Rick's coma and psychosis hadn't done them any favors. _For better or worse_ didn't factor in things like the apocalypse. "When Daryl and I go get feed bags for Carl, we can look for prenatal vitamins too. Anything you need."

At that, the corners of her mouth twitch upwards in a smile. "Thanks, that's…" She runs a hand through her hair. "I appreciate it. Thank you."

Rick nods, and tries not to think of the blonde child he'd seen walking the streets of a suburb he's never been in, bodies littering the floor, the ghost of her father trailing along behind and ready to strike Rick down. How might it had been, if Lori had kept pretending? Would the question of paternity have ever come up?

They stand in silence for a long moment, like two magnets that used to know which side of each other attracted and matches but now they're stuck, spinning out of control with no chance of harmony. "Is there something you needed now?" he asks.

She shakes her head. "Honestly I don't know," she replies. Then, quietly; "I'm worried."

Understandable. "About what?"

"About everything," she says with a huff, rolling her eyes and giving another wider, sheepish smile. "But mostly about you. About Shane. It feels like you guys have been fighting a lot."

"Must be stress," Rick says.

"You don't get stressed, Rick," Lori replies. "Never have."

"Thing ain't exactly normal right now," he mutters, scratching the back of his neck. Her eyes catch the bloodstains on his bandage, a dark red from T-Dog's blood, and she bites her lip again and takes a step forward. She holds out her hand and Rick hesitates, before he puts his wrist in her hands. She turns it over and slowly starts to unroll the bandage.

"Can you move it?"

"A little," he says, curling his fingers to emphasize. She nods, her smile almost relieved. She pulls the rest of the bandage off and wraps it around her hand. Rick's wrist isn't bruised anymore, but a light pink from the pressure of the wrap and the stain of blood that had soaked into it. His wristband has left a deep mark in his skin that will eventually fade, and he reaches with his other hand to scratch underneath it and move it a little so that it peels away from the indent in his skin.

"You should take that off," Lori whispers. "Don't think you need it now."

"Maybe not," Rick replies. "But others do. When more people come, they need to know who and what I am."

"And what are you?"

"Crazy."

"You've always been crazy," Lori says. Her smile is soft and affectionate. "Used to be a good thing."

Rick frowns and pulls his hand away from her, his fingers curling. It hurts in a dull way, to move his wrist, and he makes a mental note to ask Beth if she has anything he can use to try and get strength back in his hand – a squeeze ball or something else he can use to get it back up to working order. "What do you want, Lor?"

"I don't know." Her eyes go bright and she takes in a shaky breath. "I think Shane might try to leave. As soon as Carl's better. I know you won't like that. When we were keeping watch that's all we'd talk about – how to handle you. I don't know what to do."

"Thought I made it clear I'm willing to leave," Rick says. "You should stay here. It's safer here."

"I feel safer with you," she says, then blinks and takes a step back, her hand going to her neck to fiddle with her necklace there. "Don't tell Shane I said that."

"I won't," Rick says. He understands. He feels safe with Daryl around too – that's the way the world is now. They're safer in numbers but if Herschel is going to kick them all off the farm just because of Rick, then it's the right thing to do, to leave. He knows that. But it's also – well, if Shane is War, then Rick can't leave. And if Carl is still weak and injured, he can't leave. The lack of motion makes him feel seasick.

Lori nods, chewing on her lower lip. "Do you think it could have gone different?" she asks, meeting Rick's eyes again. "If you'd…woken up different. Or if you'd never gotten shot. Do you think it would have mattered?"

And how many times as Rick asked himself that very question? The answer is always the same. "I don't want a world where I don't know Daryl," he replies firmly. Lori's eyes flash with something like anger and he knows she's fighting the urge to look over at the other man. Her throat moves and the tendons stick out when she swallows. "And I don't think it would have gone different. You love Shane?" She hesitates, then nods. "Then that's what was supposed to happen. That's how this was always meant to go."

"Rick, I'm sorry," she says, her eyes brightening with tears. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen."

Rick blinks at her, and shakes his head. He doesn't know what she's trying to do, if she's trying to garner sympathy or play the victim, but it doesn't matter. They're all victims of circumstance now.

"I'm not," he says, and hopes his smile is reassuring. "We're both happy like this, aren't we?" She nods again. "Then that's the way it's gonna be. That's the way it was always going to be."

"Rick."

Rick turns to see Daryl approaching him, and his smile goes even wider and more genuine. It's amazing how his entire body relaxes when Daryl is near him, like a shot of the best painkillers in the world. Daryl nods at Lori, who returns it, and Daryl turns his gaze back to Rick. "Was gonna go check the snares. Could use some company."

"Of course," Rick replies, and then nods at Lori. "See you later." She swallows hard, toying with the bloody bandages, and watches Rick and Daryl turn and walk away towards the woods. "You think anything will be caught in them?" he asks as they crouch under the fence and make their way to the tree line.

Daryl lets out a small huff. "Don't really care," he says. Rick looks at him. "I just…feel restless."

Rick slows to a stop as the trees rise up around them, shielding them from sight. He reaches out and puts a hand on Daryl's shoulder so that the man turns to look at him. Daryl meets his gaze head-on, as though he's challenging Rick to read the thoughts and emotions there.

Rick stares at him, his eyes taking in the stormy blue in Daryl's, the way his jaw is clenched and his shoulders are tensed, ready for a fight. "You're still jealous of her," he says quietly after a moment. Daryl's eyes flash but he doesn't reply with words. Rick bites his lip to stifle the low sound of anger. "Damn it, Daryl, how can you still think I…? After _everything_?"

"I just don't like seein' her touch you," Daryl bites out. "How'd you like it if one of my exes came waltzing in out of nowhere, stealin' private conversations with me and touchin' me right in front of you?"

"I trust you," Rick says. "I trust that you respect and like me enough that you wouldn't cheat on me, and even if you did, you wouldn't sneak around like she did for half of it!" He takes a step forward and grabs Daryl's arm. "It's not like I'm sneakin' off into the woods with _her_ and gettin' on my knees for _her_ , Daryl. Come on!"

Daryl growls and yanks his arm away, shaking his head. "You don't get it," he says. "I'm not _like_ you people, Rick. I ain't _civilized_. I ain't holdin' out for some magical return to the way things were. Even if you save the world, we can't even go back. I've _killed_ people – for you! She ain't done that. Her soul's clean as the driven snow."

"I don't care about her _soul_ , I care about _yours_ ," Rick says harshly. Something like panic is starting to mix with the anger because this feels like it's gearing up to something. It feels like he's about to lose Daryl, and that thought makes him choke up on his words and greys out his vision. "Daryl, please – what do you need me to say? You know how I feel. You won't let me say it but you _know_."

"Well, maybe you should say it."

"You said you won't believe me."

"So now you won't."

Rick stops, for a moment stunned into silence. Then he takes a deep breath and runs his hand through his hair. His hands are shaking. "Daryl, I…" He shakes his head, meeting Daryl's gaze and hopes the other man can see how desperate and afraid he is. "I'll say it. If that's what you need."

"What I _need_ ," Daryl spits out. "But what you _want_?"

"Daryl, for fuck's sake, I _love_ you!" Rick hisses. Daryl blinks at him, straightening up. "I love you – so fucking much. I panic when I can't see you. When you're near me, it feels like I can do anythin', like I'm not – you make me feel like I'm not crazy. You've been there, through all of it. You've seen all of it, I feel like I've known you my entire life. I trust you more than I trust my ex-wife and my best friend. I _love_ you."

Daryl remains silent and Rick takes in a slow breath, his voice shaking. "Please. Don't…don't think like this. Please don't think that I would ever do that to you."

Daryl stares at him for another moment, and then he lets out a slow, soft exhale. It feels like he's blowing out cigarette smoke. Rick's head is burning.

"I'm sorry," he says. Rick breathes in again, then out, the motion shaky and shallow and too slow, trying to calm his racing heart. He reaches out for Daryl but can't make the touch land, as though there's some force keeping him back. "I'm sorry – I can't -."

"Don't," Rick says, shaking his head. "Don't tell me you're – don't tell me anythin' that means you're leavin' me."

"I'm not," Daryl says quickly. He takes a step forward and touches Rick's chest. Rick wonders if he can feel how hard his pulse is racing. He lifts his eyes to meet Daryl's and it feels like the first time he ever gazed upon Death – Daryl has the power to destroy him, more fully and more finally than any horseman. He's the one who could bring Rick to his knees with nothing more powerful than a word. "I'm not leavin', Rick. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said any of that."

" _God_." Rick grabs onto Daryl's shirt with both hands, fists clenched tightly. He bares his teeth and shakes his head. He feels as weak as he did in Pestilence's arms. "But you meant it. That's why you said it."

"Got a problem with people leavin' me," Daryl says quietly, and it sounds like another apology. Rick closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, rubbing his knuckles against Daryl's chest through his shirt. One of Daryl's hands runs through his hair and Rick collapses against him, clinging on tightly when Daryl's arms wrap around him. Daryl's breathing is heavy against his neck and he's holding back just as tightly. "I'm sorry. I saw her touchin' you and everythin' went red."

Rick knows that feeling. "You got way more power over me than that," he whispers, and Daryl huffs a small, sad-sounding laugh. "You scared the shit outta me."

"I'm sorry," Daryl says again, and then he pulls back and rests their foreheads together, his hand going back to Rick's hair and running his fingers through it until they settle at Rick's nape. "Ain't leavin'," he says, firmly. "Gonna see this through with you."

"You're family now," Rick says, but that's not a strong enough word. "You're everythin'."

Daryl sighs, pressing his lips together, before he leans in and kisses Rick chastely. Rick's fingers tighten in his clothes. "We don't gotta check the snares," he says after a moment. "Just stay with me, here, for a while."

Rick nods, all too ready to accept that. He has never felt more at piece than curled up with Daryl in the roots of a strong tree, protecting their backs while they keep their eyes fixed outwards for any approaching danger.

 

 

Early the next morning they hear a car approaching. Rick lifts his head to see the lights of the red Honda piercing the early dawn and he bolts to his feet, Daryl close behind as they race towards the fence post. The car drives past them but it's too dark inside of the car for Rick to see anything.

They follow the car towards the RV as it pulls up. In the lights of the RV Rick can see there are dents on the side of the car and smears of blood and ash and grease. The car stops, the engine dying with a low hum, and then Shane gets out of the car.

His eyes are wild and he is running his hands through his hair, shaking his head from side to side. Rick slows to a stop and holds out a hand to stop Daryl running past him. He's seen this before – people too hyped up on the gunfight they just escaped from, running on adrenaline and fear, too out of it to notice the other people around them and to be able to tell if they're friendly or not.

Shane looks up at them, his eyes wide and terrified. "I…" He swallows, looking away.

"Otis?" Rick asks quietly.

Shane shakes his head again and lets out a choked-sounding scream. "He didn't make it," he says, and Rick presses his lips together and tries not to think of Shane outrunning him, outgunning him, leaving him behind so that he could escape. Shane isn't like that, _he isn't like that_. "We got the hose, were headed back to the car and I saw a grocery store and thought we should take advantage."

He takes in a deep breath, shaking his head hard as though to clear the visions from it. Rick knows intimately what that feeling is like – what is reality, what is safe, what isn't banging down their doors and windows and when will the dead stop coming. _What is real_?

"There was a herd when we came out," Shane whispers. Rick sighs. "Fuckin' came outta nowhere. I ran. I fuckin' – I fuckin' _ran_." He wipes a hand over his mouth, his eyes bright and shining with tears. They're starting to run down his face. "I thought he was right behind me."

"So he's dead," Daryl says flatly. Rick feels his gaze go to Rick, very briefly.

Shane closes his eyes and nods. "Almost took a chuck outta me, too," he says. "I saw his eyes."

"Were ya bit?" Rick asks, walking forward.

Shane shakes his head, running his hands down his arms and chest. "I don't – no. I don't think so." Rick nods. He doesn't see any blood on Shane that would be caused by a wound. Dale and Andrea climb out of the RV and he can see Lori, Carol and Glenn approaching from the lean-to. Shane immediately goes to Lori, wrapping her in a tight hug, his shoulders silently shaking.

"Otis is gone," Rick tells the rest, watching their eyes widen. "Turned."

"Oh, no," Carol says, putting a hand to her mouth. They're losing so many people so quickly.

"Herschel's gonna be pissed," Andrea mutters.

Shane pulls back from Lori, wiping at his face. "I'll tell him," he says. "Hose is in the backseat."

Dale nods and goes to the car. Rick watches Shane as he walks towards the Greene house. Maggie and Patricia come out of the house and meet him halfway. Rick winces when he hears Patricia screaming, falling to her knees. Maggie looks about ready to throw a punch.

Lori catches Rick's eye. "He tried," he says. "Because of this we'll be able to save Carl."

Rick nods. He doesn't disagree, and wonders if that's what Shane is going to tell himself to get through the next few days before Carl wakes up. Daryl feels like a fire next to him, ablaze with something righteous and furious. When Rick looks at him he can see him watching Shane with narrowed eyes.

Maggie stalks around Shane and towards the rest of the group, her jaw clenched as she marches right up to Rick. "You happy now?" she hisses, her fists clenched tightly at her sides. "Otis was a good man, and he _died_ because of you."

"It's cause'a him we needed that hose in the first place," Daryl bites back. "He shot one of our own."

"We'd'a taken care of him just fine," Maggie replies, her face white with rage. Rick shakes his head and looks away, taking a step back. He can't be around her with how angry she is. He reaches out to grab Daryl and pull him away from her as well, forcing him to concede. Maggie glares at both of them, and then at Glenn. "I want you _off_ this farm," she says, looking at each of them in turn. "We'll make sure Carl gets better. And if he don't, we'll put him with the others."

"The others?" Carol echoes.

"In the barn," Maggie says, oblivious to Shane walking up behind her. "That's where we've been puttin' everyone. 'Til there's a cure."

"A _cure_?" Shane says incredulously, and she turns to look at him with a haughty look. "You think there's anythin' _curing_ those things?" He growls, then turns to look at the barn. "Those things are _dead!_ There ain't no _curin'_ dead!"

"Anythin' can be cured," Maggie says. "They're just sick."

"They ain't sick," Andrea says, crossing her arms over her chest. "They're monsters."

"They were good people got turned," Maggie replies.

"That barn…" Shane turns, slowly, to look at Rick. Rick flinches from the force of his gaze. "You knew. You _knew_ what was in there and you were just gonna let us _sleep_ next to those things? You were gonna let Lori and Carl be thirty feet away from a Goddamn army of walkers!"

"It ain't none of our business," Rick says, though his voice comes out weak. Lori's eyes are wide and she's fiddling with her hair, looking nervously at the barn. "What the Greenes do ain't none of our business."

"The Hell it ain't!" Shane hisses, and then he grabs his pistol from its holster and marches out towards the barn. Rick's eyes widen and he runs after him, but Shane fights his grip off. The others follow, either out of some morbid curiosity or because they agree with Shane and support his decision to go to the barn.

Shane stops in front of it and whirls on Rick, his gun raised. Rick's eyes widen and he steps back, holding his hands up. "You were gonna let us stay here," he says, his voice low with something like betrayal and disgust. "Those things could'a killed me out there. And there's a whole…" He shakes his head. "How long have you known?"

Rick licks his lips and looks to his side. Andrea is there, rifle in hand. Dale is on her other side, his own weapon ready. He looks afraid, but ready. "Shane, please," he begs.

" _How long_ , Rick?"

Rick winces. "Since forever," he replies. Shane blows out an explosive breath, running his free hand over his mouth. "I had visions about it. Knew it before I came here."

"You knew," Shane says again. "And you were gonna leave and let us rot right next to 'em, is that it? Or maybe…" He jerks his gun and Rick flinches again, ducking his head. Shane could put him down right here, and then it would be over. Does his arm feel hot, burning with War's anger – or does it feel cold, like Rick's does when Death is near. Rick feels cold, now, shivering from the base of his spine to the top of his head. "Maybe you'd just open the barn one day and let 'em all out and disappear into the night with Daryl, huh? That your plan?"

"What?" Rick demands, breathless. " _No_."

"Well, it ain't gonna matter." Shane's eyes flash to over Rick's shoulder and Rick turns to see Maggie watching him, wide-eyed. "These things ain't _alive_ ," he hisses. Then, before anyone can stop him, he turns around and shoves up the barricade on the barn door. Rick lets out a shout of warning but then he has to back away as the doors open, revealing the mass of walkers inside. "They ain't alive!" Shane shouts.

One of the walkers sees him, hissing. It's a woman in a white gown, black with dirt and old blood. Her eyes are grey and gaping, mouth hanging open as she growls and snaps and starts to stalk towards Shane. Shane puts a bullet in her chest and she bends back, but keeps walking. "See? Right in the heart. _Still coming_ ," he says, and puts another bullet in her chest.

"Stop!" Maggie cries, but she doesn't rush forward, still too afraid of the walkers to risk rushing Shane.

"Headshot you said, right Rick?" Shane whispers, as deadly and quiet as a tiger slipping through the undergrowth. He turns back and fires into the woman's head and she finally falls. Then, the rest of the walkers come pouring out.

Andrea and Dale start shooting with Shane, putting them down one by one as they pour out of the barn. There are more than Rick could have ever guessed – he can feel the evil leaching from the space inside, into the open air like an exorcized demon.

Something cold brushes his arm and he turns his head and sees Death, standing next to him. His silhouette is transparent and he can see Glenn through it. Death turns to look at him, and shakes his head, once. He looks sad.

The last gunshot rings out and the last walker falls. Shane lowers his gun, the slide snapped back to indicate that it's empty, and Andrea and Dale lower their guns. He turns around, breathing hard, and glares at Rick.

"You're not gonna get this," Shane hisses, pointing his empty gun at Rick's chest. The muzzle of it is hot from firing.

Rick shakes his head. "This didn't have to happen this way."

Before Shane can reply they hear another hiss – smaller, higher-pitched this time. Shane turns around and steps back, so that Rick can see the slim, little figure of a girl slinking out of the darkness. Next to him, Carol lets out a weak, wounded sound, and Rick knows exactly who the little girl is.

Sophia.

"Oh, _God_ ," Carol cries, falling to her knees. Her screams and sobs are loud and broken, shattered from the inside, and Rick feels a little part of himself break off with her. How lucky he is, to have a mate and a child still alive, and here Carol is with nothing.

Andrea or Dale don't raise their weapons as the girl lifts her head, hissing and snarling at them all. Death reaches out and brushes a hand down Rick's injured arm and Rick feels cold overtake him, strengthening his hand. He grabs his pistol and steps forward, past Shane and Glenn and Andrea and Dale, and holds his gun up to take aim. His grip doesn't waver, his wrist doesn't ache.

He fires, and Sophia goes down.

He turns around and holsters his weapon and looks at Shane. "Thanks for letting me be the bad guy," he says, and then he walks through the group, past Death, and back towards the lean-to. He can feel the eyes of everyone following him, and then Daryl is there, a little bit behind him and to his left.

"How's your hand feel?" he asks.

Rick swallows, feeling hollow on the inside. Like there's nothing there anymore to call flesh and organs. There's just bone, rattling around, and a beat inside of him that sounds like a war drum.

He sighs through his nose. "Never better."


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I didn't post yesterday I didn't feel well :/  
> Michonne again! \o/

Rick stands on the edge of the field, looking out towards the barn. There are still stains where Shane put the walkers down. After a few hours, when the sun was at its highest, Shane, Daryl, Dale and Glenn had started piling the bodies back inside of the barn. They did it in silence, Rick had watched. His wrist had started hurting almost immediately after he shot Sophia, as soon as he'd stepped out of the little audience that Shane had gathered when he'd opened the barn.

Maggie and Beth are on the porch of their house, too far away for Rick to see their expressions. Rick guesses that a lot of their neighbors had been in that barn. Their friends. Their mother, maybe. Siblings, uncles, anyone they might have been close to. How long had they been gathering walkers? Since the beginning, most likely. With long leashes they use to keep dogs at bay or grab a hold of sheep by the neck.

He closes his eyes and runs his good hand through his hair. How long had they been here, how long had T-Dog been searching for Sophia and she'd been here the whole time? Days, _days_ , and how could none of them have mentioned that? How often did Beth talk to Carol or Sophia, or Otis with Dale, or Maggie with Glenn, and that topic of conversation never came up?

He opens his eyes again and glares down at his hand, upper lip curling back as he scratches at the pink, tender skin of his previously bandaged wrist. It hurts to touch it, especially the tiny pinprick spot where Beth had identified his broken bone. Handling his gun, even with Death giving him the cold and the strength not to feel it, had caused it to ache terribly as soon as the horseman had left.

He wishes Death would appear to him again and help him. He is at a complete loss now of what to do and where to go. At this point even if Shane isn't War it's becoming increasingly apparent that he's a threat, that it's not safe with him around. Even Lori doesn't feel safe and Rick doesn't honestly know if he can trust Carl with the man now.

He lifts his eyes as he becomes aware of the scent of burning, rotted flesh mixing with the headier smell of woodfires, and sees flames licking up the innards of the barn. Glenn and Shane close the doors on the fire, forcing it to consume the entire building and the bodies inside of it. Rick frowns, mouth twisting. Sophia, at least, they should have buried.

But it's cleaner this way even though a part of him is anxious over the giant plume of smoke as it starts to rise, grey and thick above the roof of the barn. People might be drawn to the sight of it, and it's not likely Herschel will tolerate more strangers causing trouble on his farm.

Worse still, _walkers_ might be drawn to it. Rick swallows.

Daryl approaches him and Rick looks up to meet the man's dark, solemn gaze. "Dale says the hose'll work," he says. Rick nods. "I wanna go now. You think we can?" Rick nods again, although he feels something black and unsure coiling around in his gut at the thought of leaving his family and his friends at the mercy of their unstable leader. He almost laughs at the irony.

"I'll grab some supplies," he says, and Daryl nods before he heads towards the RV. Rick goes to the lean-to where he knows they've been keeping their blankets and food. Carol is inside and looks up when he approaches. Her cheeks and eyes are puffy from crying but for the first time Rick sees her without any visible evidence of physical abuse.

He bites his lower lip and offers her a nod before he turns into one of the stalls where extra blankets and food is. They're down to a few cans of soup and a couple pudding cups and he grabs two days' worth as well as a blanket, deeming that enough. He doesn't anticipate being gone too long.

"Rick," Carol says as he makes to leave. He turns to look at her. She has the flower Daryl gave her wrapped up tightly in her hand like it's a stretchable, pettable thing. Rick wonders how long the flower will last before the poor thing just shreds under her touch. "I know we – I know we haven't spoken much," she starts, then hesitates, looking down at her hands. Her shoulders tremble. "I just wanted to ask – you said you knew the walkers were in that barn." She looks back up at him. "Did you know Sophia was in there?"

Rick blinks at her, and then he shakes his head. "No, I didn't," he says. "I don't believe in giving people false hope."

Carol nods. She takes a deep, unsteady breath and wipes at her face. "I don't know if there's much to hope for, now," she says. "Falsely or otherwise."

Rick doesn't reply, because he doesn't know what to say. She offers him another sad smile and Rick turns to face her a little more fully.

"In the future," he says, setting the blankets and food down so that he can walk up to her and crouch down in front of her. He reaches out and takes the flower from her flinching hands, laying it out on the floor of the lean-to. "In the future, there's going to be a day where you don't think you're going to make it. It'll feel like everything worth living for, everything worth fighting for, is completely gone." She looks at him with wide eyes. "And I want you, on that day, to look back at this one, so that you can say 'I made it through that, and I'll make it through this'."

He smiles gently and stands. "I don't hope for that because I've already seen it happen. I know it's going to happen." He turns back to grab the blanket and food and looks back at her. She is staring at the flower, her fingers twitching as though itching to grab onto it again like a safety net. "I am sorry," he says, and she looks up. "About Sophia. I'm sorry that you had to see that."

"But not that you had to do it," Carol replied with a nod. She takes another deep breath. There are tears forming in her eyes and running down her face but her shoulders aren't shaking as much. "I'll see you around, Rick."

He nods to her again and then leaves the lean-to and heads towards the RV. Dale takes the supplies from them and loads them inside. "Either of you driven one of these before?" he asks Daryl and Rick.

Daryl shrugs one shoulder. "Drove the facility buses sometimes," he hazards. "Other than that, no." And Rick shakes his head because he doesn't have any experience with anything larger or more complex than a car. Even the light and siren console in his cruiser had just been mostly pushing buttons.

"It's not that complicated," Dale says. He climbs inside and Rick and Daryl follow. "Most of the differences are just down to size. Don't think it'll matter too much but I'd prefer you try and avoid damaging her as much as possible."

Rick smiles. "We'll do our best," he says.

Dale nods, standing. "She's got automatic transmission, I replaced the brakes recently, she should run just fine. Try and avoid getting her going over 50, though. She rattles."

"We'll keep that in mind," Daryl replies with a smirk in Rick's direction. Rick doubts Daryl has ever had a problem with reasonably unsteady rides – he does, after all, own a motorcycle, which Rick believes rattle far more than the RV will. He has never ridden a motorcycle in his life and isn't too interested in trying. He'd rather have walls and windows on his vehicle.

"Are you leaving now?" Dale asks, then eyes the sky.

Rick shakes his head. "Soon, but we need to go see if Beth will draw us a map or something," he says. Both Daryl's and Dale's faces turn to something uncomfortable. "If she'll even talk to me." He looks over at where Beth and Maggie are still standing on the porch, watching the barn burning.

"I can try," Daryl offers. "She might be okay talkin' to me."

Rick shakes his head and tries not to think in the same way Daryl does whenever he sees Rick with Lori. Of course, Daryl has a lot more reason to be jealous and possessive than Rick does – he only has half-remembered visions that are blurry and fading whenever he tries to think of them, but he doesn't like the idea of Beth and Daryl being around each other too much, just in case Daryl's heart softens to her in a way it can't with Rick.

If Daryl understands or knows why Rick refuses his offer, he doesn't say anything. He presses his lips together and nods when Rick says "Be right back". Rick puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes, before he lets go and starts talking towards the women by the house.

Shane and Lori and Glenn are standing in front of the barn, watching it burn. Rick passes them a little way away and Glenn turns to look at him. There's something sad and resigned on the man's face though Rick isn't sure what it is. Glenn doesn't know what Rick thinks about Shane – the only one who really does is Daryl – but Rick wonders if his behavior and his attitude appear as dangerous to the rest of the group as they do to Rick. He wonders if, should it come down to it, Shane might be the one exiled from the farm instead.

Would Herschel tolerate the lesser of two evils?

Maggie turns her head to glare at Rick as he approaches, her arms crossed over her chest. Her anger is white-hot and righteous and Rick bears it as well as he can. He knows she has every right to be angry – Rick's presence must feel like a curse for the Greenes. Because of him, his friends have stayed here past their welcome and they're in numbers enough that they outnumber the Greenes. If he hadn't been here, he couldn't have given Carl his blood. Carl would probably have died and turned and been put in the barn with Sophia and no one would have been the wiser and Otis wouldn't have felt compelled to get a hose for the RV so they could get him food bags. Rick isn't sure if her level of thinking goes that complex, or that deep, or if she's simply angry and Rick was the first one there for her to take it out on.

Either way, he accepts that she might hate him as much as her father does.

He comes to a stop at the bottom of the three stairs that lead up to the porch. Beth is nervously rubbing her thumbs over her wrists, her face white and her eyes wide and fixed on Rick. Maggie's eyes are dark with anger, her jaw bulging at the corners.

"What do you want, Rick?" she finally asks when he doesn't say anything.

Rick licks his lips and shifts his weight and tries to appear as unthreatening and non-aggressive as possible. "Beth, when you and I spoke last, you said there's a medical supply store nearby." Beth nods. "Well, I was hopin' you could give me directions, or draw a map or somethin'. Daryl and I are gonna go try and find stuff to help Carl."

Beth blinks, before she nods slowly. "I'll go draw you somethin'," she says, before she turns and heads into the house, leaving Maggie and Rick alone. Maggie moves her gaze away from Rick's face, squinting out towards the barn.

The silence between them stretches on. Rick isn't particularly eager to break it, and he's not sure what he might be able to say to appease her, or if he should even try. "I'm sorry about that little girl," Maggie finally says, breathing out heavily through her nose. "If I'd'a known you knew her, I'd'a said somethin'. I was the one that found her."

Rick nods. "I didn't know the family well," he says. "Daryl, Merle and I separated a few days after we met them."

"You think that made it easier to kill her?"

"I didn't kill her, she was already dead," Rick says, and Maggie's eyes flash to him, flat and glassy green. He sighs and looks away, scratching the back of his neck. "Maybe. Then again killin's never been a big problem for me, when it's necessary."

"When it's necessary," Maggie parrots. "Daddy told me about you. Says you're a killer. Says you're an evil man." She sighs. "Not sure he's wrong, but I ain't sure he's all right neither."

Rick shakes his head. "Your father is wise not to like me," he says, making her look at him again. "I'm sorry about Otis. He wanted to redeem himself and he paid the ultimate price for something that wasn't his fault."

Maggie nodded, her eyes getting watery. "He cried the night you guys came here," she says. "Prayed and prayed for that little boy to pull through."

"Well." Rick shifts his weight again and shakes his head. "I don't know. Maybe now Carl can, 'cause'a what Otis was willing to do."

Maggie opens her mouth to reply but is stopped when Beth comes back out of the house, holding a folded sheet of lined paper. She opens it to reveal a crude sketch that she hands to Rick. "You take the road out to the highway, go right. Twenty miles down the highway, take the exit South. Second left is Tucker Lane – it leads right to a strip mall and there was a big medical warehouse at the far side of it," she says. "It's about an hour drive normally. Not sure what kinda state the roads are in now."

Rick takes the paper from her, examining the sketch. She had drawn a design of what the building was meant to look like, the name of it, and the names of the roads as well as instructions and a small diagram for directions on each. He nods and folds it again, sliding it into the pocket of his jeans.

"Thank you, Beth," he says with a smile. She returns one of her own, small and sad.

"You'd better go," Maggie says. "Daddy wants you off the farm soon as your boy's better, and the quicker that happens the less people have to get killed."

Rick presses his lips together and nods. "Thank you again," he says. "For everything you've done." And then he turns and leaves, striding back through the grass and up the little hill to where the RV is. He smiles at Dale and then climbs into the RV to find Daryl sitting in the driver's seat.

"You got a map?" he asks, and Rick nods and pulls what Beth gave him out of his pocket as Daryl starts the RV. It comes to life with a high-pitched whirr, settling into a lower rumble once the engine starts to idle. "Jeez, I got a feelin' drivin' this thing's gonna be a pain in the ass."

Rick huffs a laugh. "I believe in you," he says. He looks out of the front window as Daryl puts the RV into drive and starts to roll away. Shane, Lori and Glenn have turned to look at them leaving and Glenn raises his hand in a small wave that Lori matches. Shane just watches them go, his face pale despite being so close to the fire, and there's a wild, wide-eyed look to him as the RV turns and Rick is unable to keep looking in that direction.

He feels a tremor run down his spine and bites his lower lip. "Do you ever feel like…something terrible is about to happen?" he asks.

Daryl licks his lips and nods. "A lot of the time," he says. "I'm rarely wrong."

"Do you feel that way now?"

"Yeah," Daryl replies, nodding again. "Yeah, I really do."

 

 

They drive out to the highway and take a right as Beth instructed. The way remains clear for almost three miles before they come across a veritable blockade of cars. "Evacuations," Daryl mutters, cutting the engine with a huff. Rick presses his lips together and nods, getting out of the RV. Daryl took Dale's rifle with him and he has his crossbow slung across his back, and Rick has his pistol and machete on his belt, ready to use on any approaching walkers.

The cars are haphazard but it's clear that they were, at one point, trying to get clear of the disaster via the highway. A few of them are already angled towards the sides of the road but it's the ones in the middle that they'll have to move to get past. Rick walks by one and flinches when a walker throws itself at the window, hissing lowly and pawing at the glass. He swallows hard and keeps walking. Daryl follows, crossbow held loose but ready in front of him now.

Rick stops when he spies something on one of the cars. He walks towards it and goes to the front of it so that he can see. On the windshield, written in what looks like paint, are the words "Sophia, stay here if you find this, we'll come for you". Rick's mouth twists and he wonders how often T-Dog circled back to this spot trying to look for her. The refugee camp can't be far from here, then. Are there still people from there, trying to find that little girl, or did they give up when Ed and Carol left, deeming it no longer their problem?

Daryl comes forward. He's frowning, and drags his hand across the front of the car. "Someone's been here," he says. "Recently. _Really_ recently."

Rick looks at him, but doesn't ask how he can tell. His eyes are on the road and the smears of dust and grease along the other cars. "Walker?" he asks, and Daryl shakes his head. Someone might have come by and judged the message old enough to risk taking advantage of the food and water left out. One of the water bottles is tipped over and half-empty.

Rick pulls his machete out and ready, holding it in his left hand since his right is too sore to grip it properly. Daryl turns to look behind them and lets out a low hiss of warning.

"Get down," he says, and Rick immediately drops to a crouch and turns so that his back is to the bumper of the car. Daryl pushes at his shoulder. "Get to the RV."

"What did you see?" Rick asks.

"Someone's coming," Daryl replies, and then he's pushing at Rick again and Rick has no choice but to follow his order. They slink back to the RV and make it to the door before Daryl stops and turns back around. The way the RV is angled, they're able to hide themselves from whatever is approaching from the other side. Daryl has his crossbow up and loads it with a swift jerk of his hands, before he cradles it close to his chest and leans back out to peer past the RV to whatever it was he'd seen.

The air is still and dreadfully silent for a long while. Rick just watches Daryl, his own ears open for any sound of approaching walker or the footsteps of one of the living. Indeed, as the seconds pass, it feels as though he's entered into a bubble. The only sound he can hear is Daryl's steady breathing. There aren't even any birds.

Then, he hears the shriek of a small child, and straightens up.

Daryl leans back and looks at him. "I can't see 'em," he says.

"There's a kid out there," Rick replies. Then, because he can never be sure nowadays. "You heard it, right?"

Daryl presses his lips together and nods. "Yeah. I heard it." He closes his eyes and heaves a breath.

"We can't just leave, Daryl," Rick says. "We can't keep letting children die."

Daryl nods. "Here's hoping they don't shoot first," he says, and then he leans back out to peer around the RV. Rick joins him, sidling up so that he can look over Daryl's shoulder. He sees the heads of three people moving around – one of them move smoothly, the single woken gaited of the living. The other two bumble, dip and shuffle. Walkers. Rick can hear them groaning and a child shrieking again.

"They're being followed," he growls, grabbing Daryl's shoulder. Daryl nods and Rick lets go so that he can raise his crossbow, aiming carefully. From where he is Rick can only make out the way they're moving and the vague dark shapes of the heads. Then they move through a break in the cars and Daryl fires.

One of the heads that belonged to a walker falls and they hear the child shrieking. The living head ducks down and Daryl loads his crossbow and fires again, dropping the other one. Then, he and Rick step out into the light and towards where they were.

They see the walkers first – two men, it looks like, their jaws and arms removed with what looks like single clean slices of a large knife. There are collars and leashes around their necks.

Rick hears movement and raises his head to see feet disappearing around the side of a nearby car as though someone is scrambling backwards to hide. He nudges Daryl's arm and nods towards the place where he saw the boots disappear. There's a silhouette of a person beyond the car that's plainly visible. Rick doesn't hear the child anymore and the silhouette is definitely that of an adult.

"Hello?" he hazards, stepping towards the silhouette. He doesn't get a reply. "You can come out. Not gonna hurtcha."

He hears another high-pitched sound that he can only assume is a child again, following by a quiet shushing and a low murmur. He frowns and looks at Daryl who shrugs. Rick sighs. "Come on. I can see you behind the car. Don't gotta hide from us." The silhouette doesn't move so Rick stops walking towards it and runs a hand through his hair. "My name's Rick, my buddy here's Daryl. We're just passing through."

"Rick…" comes the reply. "Daryl. I know you." The silhouette moves and Rick sees a pair of suspicious eyes peeking out from around the car. Rick squints as those eyes widen and then the person gets up. First Rick only sees a dark hand against the car and a thick head of dreadlocks tied back by a purple headband, and then the person stands and Rick's eyes widen as he recognizes Michonne.

"Holy shit," Daryl whispers, lowering his crossbow. Michonne has her katana slung across her shoulders and Rick looks down when he sees that, holding tightly to her other hand, there is a small child standing at her side. He remembers being told that Michonne had a kid.

He looks back at the walkers they just put down. He thinks, if he squints and tilts his head just right, he recognizes the shape of Terry's mouth – or at least the upper half of it – and Mike's haircut. He looks back at Michonne and sees her looking at the two bodies.

"They didn't make it," she says, pressing her lips together. She skirts the edge of the car, her son in tow. She has a heavy backpack on her shoulders as well that looks like it easily matches her weight. "A herd came through and wiped the whole camp out. It was…" She takes a deep breath, and lets it out. "Andre and I got out. Barely."

"Just you two?" Daryl asks.

She nods. "The walkers don't…they don't attack you if they think you're one'a them. I put them on leashes and had 'em walk behind me. No jaws and hands means they couldn't grab me, they just followed along. None of 'em bothered me."

Daryl lets out a low, half-impressed noise.

"We had some of your people with us for a while," she says. "They left a few days before the herd got here."

Rick nods. "I met up with 'em," he says. "We're staying at a farm nearby."

Michonne nods, her eyes drawn to something over Rick's shoulder. Rick turns and looks up at the sky, seeing the black plume of smoke caused by the barn fire. He presses his lips together. "That'll draw walkers," he says.

"Maybe the whole herd," Michonne says. "There were…hundreds of them. More than I could count."

"Then we should hurry," Daryl mutters. He slings his crossbow over his shoulder. "We're getting shit from a medical supply store a few miles out. You know the area?" Michonne nods. "Know a way to get there that doesn't involve movin' all these cars?"

She nods again. "Come with us," Rick says. "People need to stick together at the end of the world."

Michonne cocks her head to one side, considering it. Her dark eyes are sharp as they look him and Daryl up and down, before she looks over at the RV. Finally, she gives a nod of agreement. "I'll roll with you for now," she says. "But I can't promise I'll stick around."

"That's okay," Rick says with a smile. He jerks his head back towards the RV. "Let's go."


	38. Chapter 38

With Michonne's help they make it to the strip mall, but night is falling by the time they do. Rick feels antsy and unsure, eager to get back to his group and his son, but he knows he can't turn back until they get what they came for.

Michonne had taken the seat in front of the RV and Rick joins them, peering out the front of the strip mall. There are still floodlights in the parking lot, lit as Daryl pulls into one darkened corner. There are walkers surrounding the whole area. Rick imagines that medicine had become a priority for a lot of people in the first few days.

Daryl kills the engine and the lights, casting them into darkness. Those walkers that had noticed them bump into the side of the RV, groaning loudly, but seem more interested in the floodlights as they buzz and snap and they soon move away. In her lap, Michonne's son is sleeping, his head on his mother's shoulder and a thick line of drool darkening the sleeve of her shirt.

Rick sighs, sitting down on the elevated section of the runway of the RV, scratching a hand through his hair. "We should wait until it's light out," he says. Daryl gives a hum of agreement, nodding once.

Michonne stands. "I'm going to put him to bed," she says, and Rick moves so that she can walk past and go to the back of the RV where the bedroom is. After a moment Daryl reaches out, his hand moving from the gearshift to rest gently on Rick's thigh. Rick smiles and leans against his arm, sighing heavily.

He pulls out the map Beth gave him and opens it, grabbing a pen from the dashboard. "Okay," he says. "We need IV bags for Carl, if they have them there." He writes it down, using his spare thigh as a surface to brace the paper against. "And I said I'd get prenatal vitamins for Lori. Anything else you can think of?"

Daryl hums. "If they have 'em, we should get protein bars, vitamin packs, anything that means we can keep goin' if food gets scarce." Rick nods and adds it to the list. He lifts his head as he hears Michonne returning, skating past them and taking her seat again. Daryl's hand tightens on his thigh even though the man doesn't avert his gaze.

Rick looks over her way. "How old is your son?" he asks.

Michonne presses her lips together, crossing one leg over the other. "Just turned four," she replies with a soft smile.

Rick tries to think back to what kids needed at that age. It feels like forever ago since Carl was four. "You need anything for him?" he asks, nodding towards the store. "Anything we might find in there?"

Michonne hums, thinking for a moment. "Should probably get some multivitamins for him," she says. "He's out of diapers, thank God, but I didn't get to grab many clothes for him. But I don’t think they'll have stuff like that in there."

Rick considers. "We can see," he says, writing down _kid's vitamins_ on the list. "And if we see something on the way back we can try and salvage stuff that's in there." She smiles at him and Daryl's hand smooths down Rick's thigh in an obvious touch. Rick remembers how Daryl had stood in front of him when they'd first met Michonne and her group, the little possessive glint shining in his eyes right now. He smiles.

Michonne notices. "How long have you known each other?" she asks. "Lori told me Carl's your son."

Rick nods. "Daryl and I met a few months before the turn," he says. "Lori and I have been divorced a while."

Michonne hums again, looking away. Rick feels Daryl's grip loosened somewhat, likely soothed by the reminder that Rick and Lori are no longer together, that Rick is wholly his now. Rick wonders how long it will take before that jealous fire in Daryl dies out. Maybe it never will. Maybe Rick doesn't want it to.

"Mike and I were together for…almost six years," she says after another quiet moment. "Never got married, but it worked for us. We had an apartment in Atlanta but we were out when people started turning. Met up with the refugee camp almost immediately. How about you?"

Rick cocks his head to one side, rubbing at the back of his neck again. His wrist has started to throb painfully and he wishes he had thought to bring painkillers with them, but hindsight and all that. He sees Michonne's eyes flash to his wristband.

"I used to be a cop," Rick says. "I got shot early this year, went into a coma for months."

"Oh," Michonne says. Whatever she had expected of Rick's origin story, that clearly wasn't it. Rick smiles.

"When I came back out I was…I had a lot of problems," he says. "Got put in a psychiatric facility." He bites his lip, seeing Daryl's free hand fidget against the steering wheel, and decides to hold back on any further truth regarding the _hows_ and _whys_. "Daryl worked there. He was with me when the turn started. We were the only survivors."

"I see," Michonne says.

"We got out and met up with my family and his brother." Outside of the RV, Rick sees a shadow moving. It's small, animal-like. It's a dog. It runs through the parking lot, drawing the attention of some of the walkers who give a slow chase. Rick swallows. "We kept separating, though. Honestly wasn't sure I'd see any of them again."

"We've had more luck than anyone oughta," Daryl says, finally breaking his silence. Rick looks up at him but Daryl is still staring out, his eyes darting between the walkers outside as though doing a mental tally, watching their movements and patterns. "What's your kid's name?"

"Andre," Michonne replies, smiling again. She shifts her weight and pulls her katana off from behind her back, resting it on her lap. Rick eyes it appreciatively – like a crossbow or any weapon other than a gun, a knife requires a certain amount of skill to wield. "I think I'm going to turn in. I can take watch halfway through?"

"Sounds good," Rick replies, and Michonne stands and heads towards the back of the RV to sleep next to her son. Rick takes the seat she just left, stretching his leg out to tuck his foot underneath Daryl's calf. "I'm glad we found her," he says after another moment of quiet.

"Yeah," Daryl replies, rubbing his hand over Rick's knee. It's a soothing touch and Rick hums, closing his eyes. It feels calmer out here, even surrounded as they are by the dead. Without Shane's fiery, heavy presence pressing down on him he feels like he can finally breathe. Still, part of him worries for the safety of their group – how they're doing, if they're safe. Maybe Carl will wake up while he's gone and they'll all pack up and move so that they don't have to fight. Maybe Herschel will kick them all off anyway.

Maybe that giant horde of walkers will come through and kill them all.

He opens his eyes, suddenly a lot less calm. "You still feel like something really bad's about to happen?" he asks quietly.

Daryl takes in a slow breath and nods, pressing his lips together. "I don't want to think about it."

"I can't stop thinking about it."

"I'd offer to distract you, but there are children present."

Rick huffs a laugh, shaking his head. He catches Daryl's smirk. "I keep thinking about Otis," he says, and Daryl turns to look at him finally, breaking his vigil from watching the walkers. Rick understands, abruptly, why he waited so long to look his way – Daryl's eyes are dark, deep, and as soon as Rick meets them he finds it hard to breathe. In the silence and the calm his presence feels electric on wherever Rick's skin is exposed.

"You think Shane killed him?" Daryl asks, but it's not really a question.

Rick shrugs one shoulder. "Maybe," he replies. "I don't think on purpose, I don't think he pulled the trigger or anything like that, but I think that he probably knew the odds and wouldn't think twice about leaving him behind."

"He seemed pretty shook up."

"Yeah." Rick sighs and leans forward, putting his head in his hands. "I'm so tired of thinking like this, Daryl," he confesses weakly. "I mean, what has Shane really _done_ , before today? I can't prove he killed Ed, or Otis. He protected my family. He came when I called. He stood up for me with Herschel and he says he still will, even after I…" He breathes out, unsteadily. "I pulled a _gun_ on him."

"He pulled one on you," Daryl says.

"Yeah, an empty one," Rick replies. He lifts his head, hands dragging down his cheeks and across his mouth before he lets them fall, elbows on his knees and fingers loosely clasped. "When the horsemen are around, I see Death. Like he's protecting me, or keepin' watch. I hadn't seen him since Carl but I saw him at the barn. I don't know what to think anymore."

Daryl makes a rough, frustrated sound. "Horsemen affect people," he says, and Rick frowns. "Famine made us…hungry. Pestilence make you sick. They fuck with reality, right?" Rick nods. "Well, if I didn't know any better, I'd say Shane was really good at startin' fights."

" _I'm_ the one startin' fights," Rick says. "It's all caus'a me. I'm a curse."

"Don't say that."

"What would you call it, then?" Rick shakes his head. "Everywhere I go, Death follows. I know what I am. I know…" He stops, looking down at his hands. "I know what I am."

"Rick -."

"Maybe it's better if War wins."

Daryl surges to his feet immediately, yanking Rick upright by his shirt. "Don't you _fuckin'_ say that," Daryl hisses, slamming him back against the little cabinet behind the passenger seat. Rick winces, his shoulders protesting the rough tough and the unyielding material of the cabinet behind him. He doesn't fight Daryl off, though, but submits weakly to him, hands gently touching Daryl's tensed arms.

Daryl shakes him again, rattling the place against where he'd slammed Rick. "I _know_ what you mean when you say that," he growls, the darkness in his eyes making way for his anger. "Don't you fuckin' say that!"

His voice is breathy, wild with how angry and scared he is. His fists are clenched tightly in Rick's clothing and Rick can feel how his arms shake.

"Yer not _leavin'_ me," Daryl says. "Yer _not. Promised_ you wouldn't." Rick closes his eyes and Daryl's fingers curl tighter, knuckles white, shoving against Rick's collarbones. "Look at me, you son of a bitch."

Rick opens his eyes obediently. He feels small and weak when Daryl looks at him like this, like he'll set the world on fire himself just to stop Rick doing it. He's pale, voice thick with fear. Rick wants to soothe him but he doesn't know if he's able to.

Daryl lets go with one hand to wrap his fingers in Rick's hair, pulling him until their foreheads rest together. "I'll kill ya if ya say somethin' that stupid again," he breathes, and Rick swallows harshly. He can't make his hands move from Daryl's arms, open and exposed to whatever physical blow Daryl might want to land on him.

Daryl doesn't – of course he doesn't. He'd never hurt Rick for real. He lets go and takes a step back, breathing out harshly. His eyes flash to the door and Rick knows he wants to go outside, too claustrophobic for the emotionally charged air as it is. Rick should say something – _anything_.

"I love you," is what ends up escaping him.

Daryl huffs. "You only say that when I'm pissed," he mutters.

"I can't say it any other time," Rick says. "It seems like I constantly upset you."

"Yeah, well, I'd rather you be _here_ , annoyin' the fuck outta me, than anywhere else," he says coldly, glaring at Rick again. It seems like Rick has succeeded, though, because he feels the tension leaching out of them like smoke through an open window. "You scare the shit outta me, Rick."

"I know," Rick says. "I'm sorry."

Daryl shakes his head. He runs a hand through his hair and Rick watches him, breathing out unsteadily. Then, when it seems like Daryl won't move again, he carefully slides out from between the other man and the cabinet so that he can stand in the relatively open space of the runway.

"I can keep watch," he offers. Daryl sighs, and nods.

"Alright."

Daryl doesn't fall asleep quickly. Rick hasn't had much opportunity to watch him sleeping, not since the first night in the facility. He had looked peaceful then, even with the new threat of the walking dead crawling outside and pawing at their door. He looks peaceful now, face smoothed out in sleep and looking his actual age. Rick wants to curl up next to him and listen to his heartbeat, but he forces himself to keep watch.

He doesn't wake either of them to take over for him. He's tired, exhausted to the bone, but he knows he won't be able to sleep – and he can't risk sleeping right now, so close to so many threats. If he went sleepwalking and Daryl followed him out there's a very slim chance they would survive.

Daryl stirs right as dawn breaks and Rick gets up, patting him on the shoulder, and goes to their bags to get out food. Michonne and Andre come out a moment later and Rick grins at them.

"Mornin'!" he says. "Cold soup?"

Michonne huffs, smiling, and picks up Andre and swings him up so that he's rested against her hip. Andre giggles, clinging to his mother as she sits in the little booth, and Rick hands her an open can of soup.

"Hey little man," he says, and gives Andre a little high-five. The boy giggles again and Rick turns back to offer Daryl some food as well.

"Did you sleep?" Daryl asks, accusing. Rick shakes his head. "Damn it, Rick."

"Wasn't tired," Rick says, and wonders if Daryl can read the fatigue on his face like he does tracks in the woods – or maybe he can just tell when Rick is lying, just as he can always tell. Still, he doesn't protest. "Alright, we'll eat and head inside, yeah?"

"You should stay behind with Andre," Daryl says.

"He won't wander," Michonne replies, eyes flashing. "I'm coming in with you."

Daryl frowns, but before he can protest Rick speaks up. "I can stay," he says, swallowing a mouthful of cold tomato soup and wiping the back of his hand across his face. "It's not like I know anything about what we need to look for."

Michonne regards him with narrowed eyes, before she relents with a nod. Rick understands – he wouldn't want to leave Carl with anyone he barely knew or trusted – but the times call for it. When they're done eating Michonne and Daryl grab their weapons and head to the front of the RV.

"Stay here with Rick, Andre," Michonne says when Andre makes to follow. The boy frowns, looking back at Rick, but he's either wise beyond his years or used to being told to stay places in this new world, because he doesn't argue. "Why don't you show him the cool action figure daddy got you?"

Andre's face lights up and he runs into the back of the RV. Michonne's eyes follow him, worried and dark.

"I'll keep him safe," Rick promises. "I have a boy of my own."

Michonne nods, and then goes to the door. Rick follows Daryl until they're all crowded into the front, ready to leap out and move. Rick touches Daryl's shoulder briefly and when the man turns, he leans down to steal a quick, chaste kiss from him. When Daryl pulls away, his cheeks are pink and his eyes are lowered.

"Be safe," Rick says, and Daryl nods. "Whistle if you need me."

"I will," he replies. They look out of the door until they're sure they can make a clear run for it, and then Michonne shoves the door open and they both pile outside. Rick watches through the front window as Daryl puts a crossbow bolt through the nearest walker, and Michonne steps into a group of three and slices cleanly through their heads. He smiles.

He turns around when he hears the small patter of Andre approaching him, and smiles and drops down to a crouch. "You got your action figure?" he asks, and Andre nods and shows it to him. It's an old G.I. Joe, probably scavenged from somewhere if the dirty state of it is any indication. "Aww, cool!" he says, and sits down sideways in the runway as Andre approaches him, clearly trusting enough in his mother to know that Rick isn't a threat to him. The boy slides into place beside him, toying with the figure's moving arms. "What kind of adventures has he been on?"

"Went to the moon," Andre says, and Rick grins. He's overcome with nostalgic affection, remembering Carl when he was that age. He remembers how Shane would toss him up in the air, turning him into a fit of giggles as he made airplane noises, holding Carl loosely around the waist and making him fly around the room. He remembers giving Carl piggy-back rides when he and Shane would go on hikes, and promising him to teach him how to fish.

Shane will do all of that now. If they all survive.

"The moon, huh?" he asks, and Andre nods. "That's cool. What was the moon like?"

"Big," Andre says. "Cold." Rick laughs.

"Where should he go today?" he asks.

Andre thinks about it for a moment, toying idly with the action figure. "He should go home," he says. Rick cocks his head to one side. "Mama's house. Home." Rick sighs, sadness sitting like something heavy on his tongue. "I wanna go home."

"I know," Rick says, and wonders how he can sympathize so greatly when his house doesn't belong to him anymore, and his home feels much closer than it ever did in the form of Daryl. Rick doesn't think he would ever need to stop wandering, ever need to settle somewhere were it not for Carl and Lori. He has never liked travelling too much, never felt the need to go farther than the next state, but with Daryl he thinks he could happily wander the Earth if it meant that the man was always at his side.

They play a little more before Andre's eyes start to droop with sleep. It's only been an hour and Rick hasn't heard any whistles, or seen them coming back from the store yet. He tries not to worry, as he picks up the sleepy child and carries him back to bed. There's a blanket with colorful cartoon animals on it that he assumes is Andre's and he drapes it over him, tucking him in snugly, before he leaves the room and closes the door.

He freezes when, as soon as the door closes, a phantom chill sweeps over him. He turns and sees Death sitting in the booth, watching him with that familiar grin. Part of him wants to be angry, to wonder why Death would invade the peace he's found away from Shane and away from the agonizing uncertainty clawing at his heart.

"Why are you here?" he asks, because another part of him is afraid. If Death is here, then that means someone is going to die. He takes a seat in the other side of the booth.

Death is silent. Rick shakes his head and scratches at his wrists, anxiety crawling up his spine. "Why are you here?" he asks again, raising his eyes to stare into the void of darkness that makes up the space where Death's eyes would be if he had any.

 _The tides are changing_ , Death says.

"I want to ask you something," Rick says. "Will you answer me honestly?"

Death nods, once.

Rick takes in a breath. "Did Shane kill Ed?" he asks. "Is he War?"

 _That's two questions,_ Death says. _I promised to only answer one. Choose wisely._

Rick shakes his head, closing his eyes. "I don't know if I can do this," he says. "I can't…"

 _Tell me, Rick,_ Death says quietly, _what greater victory would War have than to watch his only challenger tearing himself apart from the inside with hesitance? How else might he win, except to paralyze you with uncertainty?_

"So Shane is War."

_What do you believe?_

"I don't _know_!" Rick growls, opening his eyes again to glare at Death. "I don't know! That's why I need your help. Why won't you help me?"

Death cocks his head to one side, considering. Rick is starting to shake, although whether that's from the cold or from something else he couldn't say. His heart feels weak and stuttering, like a wood mouse braving the first, biting air of springtime.

 _Above all else, there are rules to this world, Rick,_ Death finally says. _I cannot tell you things that you don't know yourself._

Rick frowns. "Are you even real?" he asks, because the other horsemen had all been the same. They didn't know things Rick hadn't told him, but Death had shown him the truth. Or maybe he hadn't – maybe Rick had been wandering, entirely by coincidence, the first time he'd seen Death take someone into the next world in the hospital while he was comatose. Maybe Death had told him it would be that day, that the apocalypse would start _that day_ , because Rick was growing impatient and just needed the drive to start the killing.

Rick blinks, and thinks back. Has there been anything Death has told him that Rick wouldn't do on his own?

"What about Atlanta?" he asks weakly.

_A big city, a large populace. A good place to start._

Rick huffs a shaky, broken-sounding laugh. "What about Daryl?"

_You would die to protect him. If you will not kill him, then I have no power over him either._

"Oh, God," Rick says, putting his head in his hands. "You're not real." Hysteria, rabid and with saw-blade edges, bubbles up in his throat. "You're not… _God_ , none of it was real. It's all in my head." He leans back, nails digging into his forearm, hard enough to hurt, to scratch, to _bleed_. "No. No, no – it can't all be in my head. _It can't all be in my head._ I was _right_!"

He looks up when he hears a whistle. He gets to his feet and runs to the front of the RV, staring out the front window. He sees Daryl, laden with three bags, and Michonne behind him, covering his back while the two of them move towards the RV. With a curse Rick jumps into the driver's seat, starting the engine and forcing the huge beast into a roar, trundling towards the pair.

He screeches to a halt, hitting a walker to the ground as he does so, and Daryl and Michonne grab the door and pile inside. A walker lunges in after them, clawing at Michonne's leg, and Michonne kicks at it with a hiss and Rick is driving away before the door is even shut, putting as much distance between them and the store as possible.

Daryl and Michonne are breathing almost as hard as Rick. He feels like he can barely see, driving almost blind towards the road and out of the parking lot. Michonne and Daryl settle into places in the front of the RV.

"Where's Andre?" Michonne asks.

"Asleep," Rick stutters out. "Maybe not anymore."

Michonne nods and gets up, bracing herself on the sides of the RV as Rick rounds a corner and speeds away. Death is still in the booth and Rick sees in the rearview mirror as he looks up as Michonne passes. One hand lifts, fingers outstretched.

Rick growls and slams on the gas, sending Michonne careening against the bedroom door and out of Death's grasp. "Don't you fucking touch her," he says, glaring at Death as he turns and grins at Rick. Then, Death disappears, and heat returns to the air. " _Fuck_."

"Rick," Daryl murmurs, his voice like a heat pad on a sore muscle. He reaches out and gently touches Rick's wrist. He's started to bleed, red dripping down his arm. "What happened?"

Rick shakes his head. "I have to," he says, tears in his eyes. "I have to. I have to end this. It'll all be over. Then it'll all be over."

"Rick, the fuck are you talking about?"

Rick looks down at Daryl. His eyes are wide, face flushed from exertion but the rest of him pale. Rick reaches out and runs his bloody hand through Daryl's hair and shakes his head again. "I'm sorry," he says, his voice cracking. "I have to end this. I _have_ to."

Daryl frowns, catching Rick's hand. "What did you see?"

Rick shakes his head again and yanks his hand away from Daryl's, white-knuckling the steering wheel. He can't say anything more. He can't speak.

He puts his foot down on the gas pedal, ignoring the engine's protesting shriek, and doesn't reply.


	39. Chapter 39

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are gonna haaaaaaaaaaaaate me.  
> Warning for violence and animal deaths.

The drive back to the Greene farm is tense. Rick can barely see, he feels on edge and his heart his hammering and won't calm down. Michonne is in the back with Andre and after a moment Daryl rises, grabbing the things they'd gathered from the bags and putting a few IV bags in the refrigerator.

Then, he returns to Rick's side. Rick flinches when his touch lands, light on his thigh. "Rick," Daryl says. "Pull over."

Rick shakes his head, gritting his teeth. "No."

" _Rick_."

Rick sighs, gripping the steering wheel tightly, and then pulls off onto the side of the road. He kills the engine and runs his hands through his hair as Daryl stands, pulling him to his feet. Michonne comes out of the back. "We gotta talk," Daryl says, and Michonne presses her lips together and nods. Daryl tugs on Rick's arm and leads him outside.

There are no walkers around that he can see, but Rick keeps his ears open as Daryl leads him out and slams the RV door and turns to regard him. "What the Hell did you see?" he demands. "You're…fuck, you're bleeding."

Rick looks down at his arm, where his nails have pierced the skin around his wristband. He presses his lips together and licks them, before raising his eyes. "I saw Death," he says. Daryl blinks, eyes widening. "I saw Death and he…I don't know. I don't know what to think anymore." He lets out a harsh breath, hand falling to his wrist again, and scratches at the stinging lines there. "I'm crazy – I'm fucking, _it's all in my head,_ Daryl."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean…" Rick falls back against the RV and shakes his head. "I mean it's all in my head. All of it. Famine, Pestilence…Death. It's all in my head. No one else sees them."

"I saw them," Daryl replies. "I…felt what you felt. I felt Famine."

"Did you?" Rick asks harshly, "Or did you just tell me what I wanted to hear?"

"Don't -." Daryl growls, rubbing a hand through his hair. He shifts his weight and shakes his head again, before pointing an accusing finger into Rick's chest. "Don't fuckin' say that. I ain't _humorin'_ you." Rick whines softly.

"It's called _folie à deux,_ " he says. "Joint psychosis. It's a thing."

"So, what, I'm crazy too?" Daryl demands, frowning at Rick. He pulls his hand away and Rick leans forward, trying to follow it, but then Daryl glares at him again and he goes weak, leaning back against the RV for support again. "I ain't crazy. What did you _see_?"

"I…" Rick shakes his head again and breathes out. "I have to kill Shane."

Daryl presses his lips together and nods, once, slowly. "So he's War," he says. "That's what you're sayin'. It'll be over when he's dead." Rick nods. Daryl runs a hand through his hair and sighs. "I know…I don't wanna say it, Rick."

"Please," Rick says. "I feel like I'm losin' my mind."

"Even if he ain't War, he's dangerous," Daryl replies. "That bad feelin' you been talkin' about. Every time I think about him or look at him I feel it. I think he killed Ed. I think he'd'a killed Otis if they hadn't run into a herd, even if they _did_. Which they mighta, if Michonne's story is true – but still, I don't think it's safe havin' him around. I think he's the wrong kinda crazy, Rick."

Rick closes his eyes and tilts his head up so that the back of his head hits the RV. "I have to be the one to do it," he says. "It's gotta be me. He's my _best friend_ , Daryl. My _brother_."

"I just need you calm," Daryl says. He reaches out and touches Rick's heaving chest and it does nothing to calm him like it normally does. Rick feels weak and shaky. "You gotta be calm about this, alright? You gotta be _natural_."

"I've killed so many people," Rick says. "I made you kill people too. Maybe I'm wrong about all of it."

"You were right about James," Daryl murmurs. "You were right about the end of the world."

"Well, maybe I wasn't," Rick replies. "Maybe I just thought…like I did with the first three. Do you know their names?" Daryl shakes his head. "I do. Jason, Anthony, Clark. Jason had a son Carl's age. Anthony had just been fired from his job. Clay was…" Rick shakes his head. "Clay was a scumbag. Didn't feel guilty about him. Never felt guilty about any of them because I thought I was right then – just like I think I'm right now. What if I'm _wrong_?"

"I don't know what you want me to say," Daryl says after a moment, and Rick nods because truthfully, he's not sure what he needs to hear either. Daryl doesn't have Death's gift, to give him the words that will make men surrender to him. That is a power he holds all on his own over Rick.

Rick reaches out and touches Daryl's shoulder, squeezing tight enough that his injured wrist flares at the pain. It feels grounding, _right_ , and he breathes out. "We have to get back," he says. "If nothin' else, to warn them about the herd. We have to move."

"Alright," Daryl says, and he opens the door and lets Rick back inside. Michonne and Anthony are sitting at the booth and Rick shivers when he sees that Michonne is sitting where Death was. Of course, that's no coincidence in and of itself, but Rick's mind feels electric and static and he's not willing to put anything up to chance. "I'm driving," Daryl says, herding Rick towards the booth as well, and Rick nods, ducking his head in submission to the implied order.

"You okay?" Michonne asks as Rick takes a standing position by the counter on the opposite side of the RV. Daryl brings the RV back to life and they pull back onto the road, the thing rumbling quietly in the silence.

Rick shakes his head and sighs. Michonne's eyes drop to his wrist and widen. "You're hurt," she says.

"I did it to myself," Rick says, waving a dismissive hand.

Michonne cocks her head to one side, her eyes falling to her son who's playing with his action figure, making it jump off the table and pretending it can fly back to the surface, making little whirring noises as he does so. When she speaks again, her voice is lowered; "You hurt yourself a lot?"

Rick shakes his head. "Not on purpose," he replies. Which is true – none of the things he's done to himself have been for the purpose of harming his body. When the visions had overtaken him and he'd written on the walls it had been simply because he lacked anything nearby to do it with. When he'd woken up with injuries and scratches, it's never been because he wants to injure himself.

Michonne nods and sighs, sitting back. "I feel like there's a lot about you that you don't tell people," she says.

Rick looks at her, one eyebrow raised.

"That wristband is from King's County Psych," Michonne says, nodding at it. "Means you've done some back shit." Rick presses his lips together and nods. "You said you had problems. What kinda problems?"

Rick sighs. "Is this a conversation you want to have right now?" he asks.

"Seems as good a time as any, if I'm gonna roll with you guys for much longer," she replies, folding her arms across her chest.

Rick nods, sliding down until he's sitting on the runway floor, and folds his arms together so that his elbows rest on his knees, hands wrapped around the opposite forearm. "I…when I was in my coma, I had visions of the apocalypse," he says. How many times has he told this story? When will it feel like enough? "The horsemen Death visited me in my coma and told me what was going to happen. No one believed me, of course. I ended up in the facility."

"What did you do?" Michonne asks. "No one just ends up there."

Rick licks his lips and runs his hands through his hair. "I killed three people," he says, and shakes his head.

"Why?"

Rick looks up. "I thought they were the other horsemen," he answers. "I thought…if I killed them before it started, I could stop the apocalypse. And I was wrong. Since it started I've been hunting them down. There's only War left."

Michonne nods, drumming her fingers on the top of the table. Rick can't tell from her face what she's thinking – her expression is smooth, giving nothing away. The silence stretches on, and on, and Rick starts to feel anxious.

Finally, she says; "Do you know who War is?"

Rick bites his lower lip. "I have an idea."

She smiles. "You don't sound happy about it."

"Why should I? He's my best friend."

Michonne nods again. "I'm glad you told me," she says, and then she turns around and holds out her hand to Andre, who puts the toy in and they start playing with it together. Rick turns his head, staring out of the front of the RV. The road is clear, as though the space is stretching out and urging him towards the finish. Rick feels his skin start to crawl.

 

 

They reach the Greene farm in the middle of the night, so it's dark. Troublemaker is a light shadow in the field and he trots down the fence as they approach. Daryl pulls the RV up next to the other cars. There's a fire lit and Rick gets to his feet.

"No," Daryl says, holding him back. "Not yet."

Rick frowns at him, but then Daryl gets out and grabs the supplies from the fridge, packing them away. "Help Michonne get her things," he orders, and steps out of the RV. Rick obeys, grabbing Andre's blanket and the other bag of supplies Michonne had looted and exiting the RV with her. Beth and Maggie are there, taking the bags from Daryl. Rick is surprised to see Herschel with them, and he regards Rick coolly as he steps out of the RV.

"Rick," he greets, and then gestures to one side. "A word."

Rick looks to Daryl, who looks back at him. He hands off Michonne's bag and follows the older man down towards the barn. It's still smoking, the scent of burning, old flesh and wood sharp in the air. Rick wrinkles his nose and tries to breathe through his mouth.

Herschel stops a little way away, staring out across the open fields that eventually meld into forested area. Then, he sighs, his breath misting in the cool air. "You've caused a lot of trouble for us, Rick," he says quietly.

Rick nods. "I know," he says. "I'm sorry."

"That woman and child with you, do you know them?"

"We met their refugee camp a few weeks ago," Rick says. "Before we came here. They got overrun by a herd. They're headed this way."

"The group?"

"The walkers," Rick says. "She said there were hundreds of them, if not more. We'll have to move."

Herschel huffs, his beard twitching as he smiles. "I see," he says. "So you'll be leaving soon."

Rick frowns. "You have to come with us. You'll be overrun here. They'll swarm the place."

"If they come this way at all."

"That fire will draw them."

"And who's fault is that?" Herschel finally turns to look at Rick full. Rick feels small under his gaze, like he does with Death – meaningless and altogether inconsequential to the revolution of the Earth. "My daughters have taken a shine to your friends. I'm still not convinced. I think you're an evil man masquerading as a hero with a quest. Do you agree?"

Rick hesitates. "Do evil people always think they're evil?" he asks.

Herschel chuckles. "You still talk like a cop."

"Hard habit to break."

"That Shane fellow was a cop too, wasn't he?" Herschel asks. Rick feels his neck go cold and he turns to look back towards the rest of the camp. He can't see Shane or Lori – maybe they're inside. Daryl, Beth and Maggie have disappeared too. He can see Glenn and Michonne speaking, and Andre has taken a spot beside Carol next to the fire, showing her his action figure. He must recognize her. He wonders if Andre will ask about Sophia. "Is that how they train cops in King County?"

"Maybe," Rick says. He shakes his head. "I don't know what to say to convince you. All I can say is that…the things I've seen, most of them have happened. And I knew things – you can't deny I knew them. I knew what you kept in this barn. I knew this farm. And I believe that the herd will come this way and kill anyone who's still here."

Herschel hums, shifting so that he's holding his hands behind his back in a relaxed stance. "I was going to leave," Rick says. "I was going to leave because I know it's me you don't like. I didn't mean for any of this to happen."

"Then why didn't you?"

"My son, for one," Rick replies. "Then…other reasons."

"Other reasons," Herschel parrots. "Care to explain?"

"I…told you about my visions," Rick says. "I told you that I need to kill the horsemen. I don't think I have to go searching to find the last one."

Herschel nods, slowly. "Your boy stirred while you were gone," he says, and Rick's eyes widen. "He didn't wake up, but it was a sign of life. I believe he'll recover soon. Then you can be on your way and leave the rest of us to it, hmm?"

Rick nods, licking his lips. "I'm so sorry, Herschel," he says. "I wish you could believe me."

"I'd rather I didn't," Herschel replies coolly. Then he turns again and nods in Rick's direction. "Good night, Rick," he says, and then starts to walk back towards the house. Rick sits down in the grass, shrouded in darkness.

He looks up when he hears footsteps approaching and recognizes Shane's silhouette. His fingers clench tightly in his palms and he forces himself not to rise to action, to grab his pistol and just _end it_. He's unsure again, unsteady as a newborn colt. He can't _commit_ to the decision. His lungs are frozen and his fingers are weak. Death isn't coming to give him strength.

He wonders if it's his own sense of self-preservation that's staying his hand. After all, after War is gone, he's next. Maybe it's just his primitive brain, fighting against the end of it all. He isn't ready – will he ever be? How many great discoveries and miracles were done just by taking the plunge?

"Hey," Shane says uneasily, coming to a stop beside Rick. Rick nods, letting out a grunt of acknowledgement. "We got the IV bags hooked up to Carl. Did Herschel tell you he moved?" Rick nods again. "He asked for you – a little slur of 'Dad', then it was over."

Rick presses his lips together and bows his head. His breath is shaky when he exhales. "Sit down with me," he whispers, and hears Shane moving to obey, taking a seat on the grass next to him so that they're both staring out towards the barn. Rick feels eyes on him and knows it's Daryl, but Daryl doesn't approach.

Rick looks up at the barn again, the black plume of smoke visible even in the night air. "Why did you do it?" he asks. He looks over at Shane. "Why did you come back for me, when I called? I told you to go to Atlanta."

Shane blinks at him, frowning. "Not gonna leave you behind," he says firmly. "And I ain't gonna let you wander off, neither. Rick, how can you ask that? You're my brother."

"I know." Rick's voice feels thick, his throat tight. He looks away again. "And you're mine. And I love you. But I know…I've been thinkin' things."

The air around them gets tense. Shane's voice is wary; "What kinda things?"

Rick shakes his head and lets out a defeated sigh, putting his head in his hands. "Awful things," he replies. "I think I might have just been crazy all along. I think all of this…all the things I done, the things I've made Daryl do…and I don't know if it's actually going to _do_ anything. What if I'm wrong? What if War and Death are gone and -?"

_And I won't even be around to see if I'm right?_

"Rick…" Shane reaches out, his hand warm when he touches Rick's shoulder. Rick flinches and tenses up under the touch.

"I have to know, Shane," Rick says, and lifts his head to look at the other man. "I have to know – did you kill Ed? Did you let Otis die? _Please_ , tell me. Please, I promise I won't tell anyone else, not even Daryl. _Please_."

Shane's eyes are dark, unreadable in the night air. Rick starts to shake when Shane's hand withdraws and he thinks he might already know the answer. Rick wonders what weapons Shane might have on him right now. He wonders, if they both drew, who would fire first.

"Please," Rick says. "Just tell me."

Shane sighs and rubs a hand over his mouth, shaking his head. "I didn't let Otis die," he says, and Rick doesn't even know if he believes him or not. "I…thought about killing Ed. More times than I wanna admit. I thought about how I'd do it, how I'd…fuckin' wrap my hands around his throat and give him bruises to match Carol's, watch the light go outta the sonuvabitch's eyes." He breathes deeply. "But I didn't kill him."

Rick shakes his head, whining softly, and runs his hands through his hair.

"Michonne said there's a herd comin'," Shane says. "That true?"

Rick nods. "We should keep watch on the hillsides, make sure they don't get the drop on us. Be ready to move."

"You think they'll come this way?"

"I've learned not to believe anywhere's safe anymore," Rick replies. He looks up and draws in another deep breath. "Shane, if anything happens, you gotta promise you won't come lookin' for me. That you won't come back. That you'll take Lori and Carl and _go_."

"I can't do that, brother," Shane says. His voice sounds different, rougher, growling, and Rick turns to look at him again. The firelight gleams off the golden crown on his head and Shane reaches out, squeezing his shoulder again. There's a sword in the grass between them, and War smiles. "It's you and me 'til the end of the world, right?"

Rick is shaking, trembling finely under Shane's touch. Fear has coiled itself up tightly in his chest and he manages to nod, slowly, and tries not to think about the glint of rubies in Shane's crown and how it matches the stain of red on his wrist.

"Yeah," he croaks. "I guess that's how it's gotta be."

 

 

 

 

The days pass tensely. Carl gets more color to him, revived by the IV bags. Daryl spends most of his time in the forest. Carol starts teaching Andre how to write in Beth's old notebooks. Michonne has taken a shine to Troublemaker and Bailey and helps groom and bathe them with Maggie and Beth. The barn continues to smoke and smolder. Rick wonders when the fire will finally go out.

 

 

 

 

There's blood on his hands when he comes to. It's warm and oozing around his fingers as he plunges the knife in, again and again and again. He's screaming, sweat running into his eyes. Fingers clutch at his wrists weakly, blood gurgling from a mouth full of sharp teeth. Rick screams again, pulling the knife out and driving it back into the man's throat. He finally goes still.

His hands are shaking and he gasps, breathing heavily, sitting back on the body as he watches the light flicker and die. Blood leaks weakly from the wounds – seven stab wounds in the heart, one in the throat. He pulls the knife out and slams it into the body's skull, making sure it stays dead. His breathing is unsteady and raw and he pulls his hands back, running his bloody fingers through his hair and across his face.

He clenches his eyes tightly shut as the tears start to form, running down his face to mix with the blood and sweat there. Sobs wrack his body and he screams again – this broken and wretched thing. He pulls the knife out and presses his fingers around the body's jaw, grabbing it and forcing the blank eyes to meet his.

"I…" He can't speak. His throat is too wrecked from his cries and his sobs. In the middle of the open field the sounds of his grief and his pain echo, and he bows his head and bares his teeth in another heavy, shuddering sob. "I'm so sorry," he whispers. "I'm so, so sorry."

He pulls back and his fingers grip tightly at the body's chin, shaking his head from side to side. "Get _up_ ," he growls, then raises his eyes to stare into the darkness. "I did it!" he yells, shoving himself to his unsteady feet. He throws his arms out wide on either side of him and grips his knife tightly. "I fucking _did it,_ are you _happy?_ "

No answer comes. Rick looks back down, his vision blurring. The teeth fade away and the red in the body's eyes fade back to brown and the sword and crown melt again. Rick shudders, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth, and falls to his knees again.

"Shane," he stutters, grabbing Shane's face with both hands. He shakes him, kneeling over his body like he can will life back into those wide eyes. He leans in and rests their foreheads together, noses brushing. The pain feels like something physical, ripping through his chest like someone lanced him, pinning him to this spot through his heart. He feels like he's the one who should have bled out. "Shane, no – get up. Please get up."

He runs his shaking hands through Shane's hair and pulls his head up, closing his eyes, his face scrunched up and tight from crying. He doesn't feel like he'll ever get in air again, he doesn't want to open his eyes.

But he does – he hears someone approaching, the heavy step of a horse, and he looks up. He sees the four horses, gathered in a tight formation around him. They are without riders, even Death's, the smallest, pale horse regarding him with dark, intelligent eyes.

He shoves himself to his feet and slashes at the horses, baring his teeth. They jerk their heads, whinnying loudly at him, and dance away – except Death's horse. The animal remains calm and collected, watching him impassively.

Rick lowers his knife and touches the horse's cheek, leaving a bloody handprint behind. "Is it done?" he asks the animal, who shakes its mane and gives a soft whicker. Rick closes his eyes and breathes deep. He smiles. "It's done. It's my turn now."

He looks down at the knife in his hands and turns it around. He falls back to his knees beside Shane's body and looks back down at his friend. Shane's eyes are fixed somewhere to the side of him, where War's horse is standing, the animal a fiery red and pawing the ground wildly.

"It's finally done," Rick says, and turns the knife, pressing it against his wrist. Before he can press down and cut, hands grab him. They're boney but warm and the knife drops from his hand. He looks up to see Death grinning at him. The sockets are not the dark void they normally are, but burning brightly in his skull.

"Rick," he says, holding Rick's wrists tightly. But that's not right – the voice isn't in his head. Death's skull is moving. Rick blinks and shudders, shaking his head violently. "Rick – come on! Don't do this to me now."

And then Death grabs him by the back of the neck and leans in, kissing him. Rick gasps, feeling warm lips and flesh under his hands instead of bone, and when he opens his eyes it's not Death kneeling in front of him, but Daryl. He moans, bowing his head, trembling finely.

"Rick," Daryl asks, pawing nervously at the back of his neck where his hand still is. There's blood on his mouth – _Shane's blood_. Oh _God_ , it's not over – why can't it be over? "Rick, the herd's comin'. We gotta move."

"I don't want to," Rick says, fighting weakly against Daryl's hold. He just wants to lay down by Shane and let the darkness consume them both. "Oh God, _Daryl_ , what have I done? What did I _do_?"

"Rick, come _on_!" Daryl growls, and then he's on his feet and yanking Rick upright as well. "The herd's almost at the house, we gotta _go!_ We gotta get Carl and everyone outta here!"

Carl. Yes, he has to save Carl. All of this would be worthless if his son didn't survive. Rick stumbles along behind, hardly able to see. He can hear the walkers now, it sounds like a horde of them, gaining on them swiftly. When he looks behind himself he can see them, shapeless masses moving in the darkness. They were so close – they would have eaten him alive.

"Rick!" He hears Lori shouting. "Where's Shane? I can't find him!"

Rick shakes his head and shoves Daryl's grip away. "Get her out of here," he growls. "I'm getting my son!"

" _Rick!_ " Lori shrieks, fighting past Daryl's hold and advancing on him. She stops when she sees the blood on his hands and staining his shirt, deep lines running across his face. Her face goes pale and her eyes go wide. "You… _What did you do, Rick_?"

_What have you done?_

Rick shakes his head and grabs her wrist, shoving her back into Daryl's chest. "Get out of here!" he yells. "The herd's coming!"

Dale, Andrea and Michonne are already climbing into the RV. There's fire in the Greene house. Rick runs towards it and shoves the door open inside. He sees Patricia on the ground, passed out from smoke inhalation. There's ash on his hands too, mixing with the blood.

_Did I do that?_

There's a knife wound in her back.

He hears coughing from upstairs and runs up there, finding Beth in the hallway, staggering and barely able to keep herself upright. "Come here," Rick says, grabbing her and helping her back down the stairs. "Is anyone else in the house?"

She shakes her head weakly. Rick sees Glenn and gestures for him to come over, giving Beth to him. He can see the walkers in the light of the fire now, can hear their snarls. He hears someone start shooting. "I gotta go get Carl!" he yells at Glenn over the noise. "Get everyone outta here!"

Glenn nods. "We'll leave a car for you!"

Rick nods and runs back up the stairs into the room Carl was staying in. The boy is coughing lightly, eyes roving under his lids. Rick unhooks the IV with shaking hands, adrenaline overtaking his pain and his sorrow for a moment. His hands are cold but burn when they touch Carl's fire-warmed skin. He hauls the boy into his arms and runs back downstairs.

There's a walker on the porch when he gets out and Rick stumbles, almost dropping Carl as he goes to one knee, cradling his son to his chest, and pulls out his gun to shoot. His wrist aches sharply when he does it but he has no time to think about physical pain. Another walker lunges for him and Rick flinches, only to stop when the walker falls, a bolt in the back of its head.

Daryl drives up on his motorcycle, crossbow loaded and firing again. "Get on!" he yells, and Rick picks Carl back up and Daryl shifts back so that he can hold the boy in front of him and keep him on the bike. Rick pulls away. "Rick, get on the fucking bike!"

"We won't fit!" Rick says. He raises his gun and shoots another walker. Christ, there's _hundreds_ of them. "Where's Lori?"

"Glenn took her and Beth in Otis' truck," Daryl replies. Rick nods, and then makes a break for it across the porch and over the railing. A walker hisses, growling at him – then another. Daryl shouts for him and Rick looks just in time to catch his machete before he's slicing through the walkers. He's uncoordinated and his left hand is weak but it does the job. He keeps running, towards the field.

There are three horses in the field now. Bailey is running around wildly, whinnying high-pitched and afraid. A walker catches the horse and she goes down and Rick swallows back a sad sound. Troublemaker runs up to him and by his side is Death's horse, transparent and calm. There's a halter on his face but no saddle or reins.

Rick doesn't have time to think about it. Take the leap, _survive_. He climbs up on the fence and swings himself onto Troublemaker's back, and Death's horse gives a snort of approval. Daryl pulls up beside him.

"You can't be fucking serious," he says.

"The walkers broke the fence," Rick replies, nodding to where the fence has indeed given in. "Help me clear it."

Daryl nods, pressing his lips together. He revs the motorcycle and rounds the corner, stopping to load and fire his crossbow at the walkers still gathered there. Most of them are drawn to the fire of the house and the rest are feasting heartily on Beth's horse. Rick grips onto Troublemaker tightly as the horse rushes the fence, shoving through the few walkers gathered there. Rick swings at the ones close by with his machete, his gun sheathed for now so that he doesn't make noise that would entice them to follow.

They claw at his boots and the horse's flanks but then Death's horse is there and Rick turns, watching as the horse whinnies loudly, rearing up, and the walkers turn their attention to it like it's a bright light in the darkness. Rick knows what's about to happen. He turns his face away.

"Move!" Daryl yells, revving the engine of his bike again, and Rick turns and urges Troublemaker into as fast a gait as he can hold onto – a fast canter, a smooth stride. Troublemaker is dirty with blood and ash but his hoofbeats are smooth and carry Rick away from the Greene farm as it's slowly engulfed in flames.


	40. Chapter 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap, guys! 200k and 40 chapters! That's insane. I thank everyone who's been on the journey so far, but we're not done yet!
> 
> Rick talks a lot about suicide and his mindset could be described as suicidal in this chapter. If that is triggering for anyone please read with caution (although is has been a theme throughout the story so hopefully it doesn't come as a shock). And feel free to message me for details if you're unsure!

They ride through the night, Daryl's motorcycle lighting the way for Rick as he keeps his grip on Troublemaker. The horse bears him smoothly with no sign of weariness. Soon they catch up to the train of the others, the RV taking up the rear with Glenn driving Otis' truck in front, another car that Rick assumes – _hopes_ – has the rest of the group inside of it.

They reach the highway and turn away from where the blockade had been, where Rick and Daryl had gone for medical supplies. Rick trusts Troublemaker to follow them, concentrating on holding on and not falling off the horse as they ride through the darkness.

They keep driving until they hit another section of highway that's overrun with cars and walkers. There aren't as much as the herd – definitely not enough to put fear in Rick's heart, though truthfully he's not sure if he has room to feel anything aside from the dead, adrenaline-fueled energy keeping him upright. Troublemaker slows to a trot and then a walk, before coming to a complete stop as Rick gives him a soft command. He dismounts and the horse tosses his head, bloody nostrils flared wide and heaving flanks steaming gently.

He grabs his machete and walks towards the walkers, felling the first one as it lunges for him. He can see bright as day in the combined light of the cars and then he hears gunshots, as Glenn gets out of his car and joins him in culling the group of walkers. He hears the roof of the RV open and hears Andrea and Dale climb out, shooting from above.

He loses himself to the rhythm of it – find target, slice, yank his blade free, find another. They keep coming at him as though the group understands the vendetta now. He killed their masters, all of them, and now they want to turn on him and rip him apart. If Rick dies by anything other than his hand, that's the end of it. It will have all been for nothing.

His grip on his machete is slick with blood, his and Shane's. He can't stop to think about it.

Maggie gets out of the lead car and Rick huffs a relieved breath. He doesn't ask her where her father is, hoping that he's in the car as well. Glenn, Maggie and he move through the blockade of cars, killing the walkers that they see. There are dozens of them.

He lets out a shout of surprise when a walker lunges for him, clawing at his clothes and slamming him against the door of a car with broken windows. He shoves it back and it goes down, a bolt lodged in its skull. He nods towards the light of Daryl's motorcycle.

Maggie fires her pistol and the last of the walkers that he can see goes down. He slides his machete through his gun belt, running a blood-slick hand through his hair. It's still not dry. Will it ever be?

He turns, squinting at the light from the cars. Glenn and Maggie's silhouettes are there, regarding him. He swallows and jerks his head towards the blockades. "Help me move them." Maggie nods and gets into the nearest car. Most of them still have their keys inside and they force the cars into neutral, Rick and Glenn pushing them as Maggie steers them off the road.

When the path is reasonably clear Rick heaves a breath, wiping the sweat from his forehead. He squeezes Glenn's shoulder. "We should keep moving."

Glenn nods, before he hesitates. "…Rick?" he asks, and Rick turns to look at him. Maggie walks past them both without a word but her emotions feel red-hot and roiling as she passes. Rick sighs and looks at Glenn. "What the fuck happened back there?"

"We think it was the herd that went through Michonne's camp," Rick replies.

"That's not what I meant."

Rick nods. "I know."

"Okay," Glenn says. "When we stop, then."

"Yeah."

Glenn leaves, back into his truck, and Rick returns to the light of Daryl's motorcycle. Carl is still safely tucked against Daryl's chest and Rick smiles, overwhelmed with affection and gratitude at the sight. "He moved at all?" he asks. Daryl shakes his head.

Rick turns when he hears Troublemaker snort. The horse's flanks are bloody and dirty, lacking the usual shine. He doesn't see any new wounds, though, anything too deep to worry about. He raises a hand and rests it on the animal's cheek. Troublemaker nuzzles against his pocket, lipping at his holster.

"You can go now," Rick says. The animal has already done so much for him, it seems unfair to make him go any further.

Troublemaker snorts and regards him with his bright blue eye, blinking slowly. He doesn't seem in any hurry to leave. Rick sighs again.

"Don't think you'll be welcome in any of the cars," Daryl says quietly. Already they're starting back up, ready to move again. If they even know Rick is without a mount they either don't notice or don't care. It's probably for the best, if they move on without him, but it would be unfair to separate Carl from Lori after everything.

Rick nods, acknowledging that he must ask a little more of the horse. He goes to one of the cars they pushed aside and Troublemaker follows, putting himself at the trunk so that Rick can climb on and then swing a leg over. Rick rights himself and gathers a handful of mane as Troublemaker tosses his head and falls back into step by Daryl's motorcycle.

They keep moving, vaguely North as the sunlight starts to color the horizon to their left. They keep driving until the lead car pulls off onto an abandoned rest stop. There are a few cars there and the floodlights flicker but illuminate the space. There are no people Rick can feel, or walkers. Still, he's wary of the forest creeping up on them from all edges.

Rick dismounts again when the engines start to die and he helps Daryl balance his bike, taking Carl's weight away and falling to his knees so that he can hold his son without putting too much strain on his wrist. Carl's cheek is warm, his eyes moving beneath his lids. He gives a weak cough, head falling to one side, but his heartbeat is steady and it doesn't look like his stitches have torn.

He looks up when someone approaches – it's Lori, fire in her eyes and her strides big and aggressive until she stops short when she realizes what Rick is holding. Her eyes flood with tears and a hand goes to her throat.

"You got Carl out," she says quietly. There are tear marks on her face.

Rick nods. "Of course I did," he replies, as though she could think he wouldn't.

"Where's Shane?" she demands, looking around as the rest of the group unload, searching every silhouette and not finding the one she wants. "Is he -? _Where is he_? We need to go back for him!"

As though she hasn't already seen the blood on Rick's hands and face and knows the worst has happened. Rick tightens his grip on Carl and tries not to think about how Shane had felt beneath him, clinging to him weakly when his knife first slid in. His breath gets shaky, the adrenaline fading to leave him tired and weak.

"Shane's dead," he says quietly, closing his eyes.

" _No_ , he's _not_ ," Lori growls, whirling on him. Her hair is dirty with ash. "He's _not_ dead. We have to go back for him!"

"You wanna walk back into that mess, be my guest," Michonne says, holding Andre's hand tightly.

"Lori, he's dead," Rick says again, lifting his head and opening his eyes. The rest of the group have gathered around him now, staring down at him. He imagines this is how the first soul felt gazing upon their God, wrathful and righteous.

Lori's eyes land on him, cold, her voice ruthless; "You killed him," she says, and Rick closes his eyes again and grips Carl even tighter as though the boy is a lifeline, the only thing keeping him grounded in reality. "You son of a _bitch_!"

She runs at him, slapping his face harshly before Daryl lets out a low sound of warning, pulling her away. "No, let her," Rick says, carefully laying Carl down and pushing himself to his feet. "She's right. I did kill him."

There's a collective gasp from his audience and Lori goes still, no longer fighting in Daryl's hold. Her tears have started to make her shake and she's furious in her grief, her hands curling to claws like a walker, as though she intends to rip Rick's flesh from his bones. Maybe she should – maybe she should be the one to do it.

"He killed Miss Patricia."

It's Beth who speaks up and Rick looks at her. Her face is ashen and pale, her eyes wide in the low light and dark. She looks down at her hands and bites her lip. "They got into a fight about Mister Otis. He got this…look in his eyes. I saw him kill her. He set the fire."

_What else is War but chaos? Fire and blood?_

Rick thinks back to the knife he'd used. It hadn't been his. Patricia had been stabbed. Could it have happened like that? He presses a hand to his forehead and tries to _remember_ , to _think_ , but he can't. He had just felt this chill sweep over him and woken up to the heat of Shane's blood on his hands.

"No," Lori says coldly. "Not Shane. He wouldn't hurt _anyone_."

"Ed didn't get bit by a walker," Daryl says quietly, finally letting go of her and stepping to Rick's side. The group gasps again. "He was murdered. Shane could'a done it."

"Don't," Rick says, holding out a hand and resting it lightly on Daryl's arm. "We don't know that. We don't know any of that."

"He was with _me_ , that entire _night!_ " Lori hisses. She shakes her head and puts her head in her hands. "God, Rick, what have you _done_?"

Rick looks at Beth but Beth isn't look at him. Could she be lying too, to save him? But why would she? Rick looks back at Lori, and then the rest of the group. He doesn't see Herschel. "Where's Herschel?" he asks.

"In the car," comes Maggie's reply. "He won't get out."

Rick nods. "Everyone made it out," he says, looking around the group again. Everyone is accounted for – Andrea, Dale, Carol, Andre and Carl. Beth and Daryl and Glenn. Lori. _Not Shane._ "That's…fuck, okay. That's good."

"No it _isn't_!" Lori shrieks. "You _killed_ Shane!"

"He was _War!_ " Rick replies steadily. Was he, _was he_?

"Oh, _damn it,_ Rick!" Lori turns away, her hair flinging wildly around her, and shakes her head. "Damn it, you fucking _psycho_. No he wasn't. It's all in your Goddamn _head_. He loved you! He loved you so much he was willing to do anything for you and you _killed_ him!"

"It's done," Rick says coldly. His chest is burning with sorrow and grief. But if he is right, if Shane had been War – _he has to be War_ – then that means it's over. "Why didn't you let me finish this?" he says, turning to Daryl with a low growl. "Why can't you just let me _finish this_?"

Daryl meets his gaze, chin lifted up in challenge. "I ain't never gonna let you," he replies. "That's not how this's gotta play out."

"Guys." It's Glenn, and Rick looks up to see him looking over his shoulder, weapon raised. Walkers have come, alerted by the sound of their fighting. They form a tight group around Carl and Lori, lifting their weapons as well.

"You should have let me die," Rick says to Daryl.

"I wish you had," Lori mutters.

Daryl's eyes flash as he raises his crossbow and shoots the nearest walker.

 

 

 

They clear the area, setting up ropes lines with empty cans from the RV and the cars to give them some noise should any other walkers amble their way. They light a fire underneath the little alcove in front of the bathrooms. The bathrooms stink, uncleaned and unwashed. Daryl breaks open the vending machines so that they feast on sodas and snacks. Carl gets placed in the RV and there are still a few bags inside of it so they hook him back up to one with more medical supplies Daryl and Michonne had grabbed. Andre gets put to bed in the same room so that only the adults are alive.

The atmosphere around the fire is tense and charged. Herschel still doesn't come out of the car, and Maggie says he doesn't want anything to do with Rick or to be anywhere near him. Rick understands. If he had been allowed to fulfil his destiny, allowed to do what needed to be done, they wouldn't be having that problem.

But if he had died, who would have saved Carl? Who would have gotten Beth out? The answer that _no one, no one could've_ gives him a little measure of peace.

Troublemaker grazes idly in their perimeter, always within sight. The sounds of wildlife are stifled but there, birds chirping and squirrels chittering as the day draws on. Rick stays by Daryl even though Daryl hasn't said another word to him since the shootout. His anger is cold and oppressive, as strong as Rick has ever felt it. Rick wants to walk into the woods and never return but Daryl would follow him, track him down and haul him back – he's sure of that, despite Daryl's anger. Daryl won't let him just _leave_.

Finally, Glenn clears his throat and Rick raises his head. "So, what now?" he asks, awkwardly.

"We need to find another place," Dale says. "Somewhere we can be safe and regroup."

"Ain't nowhere safe," Daryl says.

"Maybe not, but we can make it so."

Rick nods. "The herd was moving South," he says. "The coast is our best option. Or North."

Something flickers in his brain, some shrouded half-feeling. He looks up, half expecting to see Death standing beside him, but he sees nothing. If his mission is completed, the horseman has no use for him now. Perhaps he'll never see Death again.

He's so tired. It feels like he hasn't slept in months. He just wants to sleep and never rise again.

A gunshot would be the best way, but his pistol is out of ammo and he doesn't have anymore. It was all in the lean-to. No one will give him another gun. He can't die any other way that would guarantee he wouldn't come back. It has to be _final_.

"We could go North," Glenn offers. "We can siphon gas, I know how. We can go as far as we need to."

"Lot of cities up North," Andrea says. "Lot of people. Lot of walkers."

"Maybe survivors, though."

Rick puts his head in his hands, sighing heavily. His head is burning, aching in the worst kind of way like dehydration and sleep deprivation all rolled into one. He feels _something_ , telling him that there's Haven up North, that that's the way they need to go. But no one will listen to him.

"Rick," Michonne says, and Rick looks up. "What do you think?"

Before Rick can answer Lori lets out an ugly sound, her eyes boring into him. "I don't give a fuck what he thinks," she says, looking directly at Rick.

"He's gotten us this far," Daryl says.

" _Shane_ got us this far," she replies icily.

Rick's eyes drop to her stomach, still flat for now. He swallows harshly. "I think…" He shakes his head. "I don't know what I think. I don't _know_."

"Did you know Shane killed Patricia?" Maggie asks.

Rick shakes his head. "Maybe. I don't remember."

"You don't remember," Lori mocks.

"You _know_ I -." Rick grits his teeth, shaking his head again. "You know sometimes I can't remember."

The group looks up as a door opens. It's Herschel, climbing out with a tense look on his face. His eyes are bright with tears he hasn't allowed himself to shed. Maggie gets to her feet immediately, helping him as he stretches out the aches and creaks in his body, and then walks over to the fire. There's a park bench nearby and she and Dale drag it over so that Herschel can sit more comfortably. Dale takes another spot, likely grateful for the proper seating.

"Rick," Herschel says after a quiet, tense moment. "I would like to hear your story now."

Rick looks at him with wide eyes. "I…my story?" he repeats weakly.

"Yes," Herschel says. "I would like to know, in this vision of yours, what the next step is."

"He's _crazy_ ," Lori hisses. "He doesn't have a Goddamn _vision_."

"Maybe he is," Herschel concedes with a nod. "Still, I'd like to hear."

Rick licks his lips, looking into the eyes of the rest of the group, before he pushes himself to his feet. He looks at his hands – they're still caked with Shane's blood. He wants to clean them, but doesn't deserve to have it clean yet. Maybe he never will.

He looks back up and his eyes find Daryl's. After a moment, Daryl reaches out and place his hand in Rick's, squeezing gently, before letting go. His eyes are dark, and he gives an almost imperceptible nod. Daryl's warmth gives Rick new strength and he turns away to regard the grimy, whiteish wall separating the entrance to the men's bathroom and the women's.

He approaches the wall and smears his fingers through the dirt. The markings left behind are reddish-white. Stained. "And then," he whispers, feeling a weird sense of oneness and rightness as he writes the word 'Pestilence' on the wall. "The first of the seven seals was broken, and I heard a voice of thunder." _Seven. Seven stab wounds, right to the heart._ He drags his fingers down through the divots between one brick and the next, painted with white. "'Come', he said. And I looked and saw a white horse, and he who sat on it had a bow; and a crown was given to him, and he went out conquering and to conquer."

His hand starts to shake and he swallows hard, flattening his palm to smear the word out. "And when the second seal broke, I heard the second creature say 'Come'. And a red horse went out, and _War_ sat upon him. A great sword was given to him, and he was granted the power to take peace from the Earth, and that men would slay one another at his will."

He pulls his hand back and looks at Lori, who's watching him with wide eyes. She's never heard him speak like this – this was always something he'd do in the middle of his blackouts, and she would come home and see it, but she never heard it. Maybe she'll finally start to believe.

He wipes the word 'War' out and starts on 'Famine'. "And I looked and the third creature said 'Come'. I looked, and behold, a black horse; and he who sat on it…had a pair of scales in his hand. Do not damage the oil and the wine."

He looks back at the word, fingers curling. He's starting to shake, too weak to withstand the power of the words. He chokes on them, unable to say them, and then he hears Herschel's voice;

"And when the Lamb," he says, his voice mild, and Rick takes another deep breath and starts to write the name of the last horseman on the wall. "When the Lamb broke the fourth seal, I heard the voice saying 'Come'. I looked and saw a pale horse, and on him sat Death. Hades followed with him. And he was given authority over all, to kill with sword and with Famine and with pestilence, and by the wild beasts of the Earth."

Rick lowers his hand, the single word 'Death' gleaming red against the wall, darker than its brothers. He looks back at Herschel who is regarding the wall, his lips pressed tightly together.

"They're all dead," Rick says. "I killed them all. Famine, in Atlanta. Pestilence at the King County Penn. War…on the farm." He looks back. "There's just Death. Just Death, and then it will be over."

"And you believe that you are Death," Herschel says.

Rick nods. "Yes," he says, and wipes a hand through the name before smearing it on his bloodied shirt. He looks back at the group. "With my death, the apocalypse will end. Everything will go back to the way it was – or at least, the Earth will stand a chance of recovering. Death told me this himself. But I…" He shakes his head. "I have to be the one to do it. Only a horseman can kill another horseman."

"Rick…" Glenn's voice is weak. "I mean, I know I said I believe you but this…"

"How many of you killed before you met me?" Rick asks. "How many have I killed? Too many, but there's one more."

"I don't believe that," Daryl says.

Rick smiles, but it's sad. "You can't pick and choose what parts you believe, Daryl."

"Well if it means you fuckin' _off_ yourself then I don't believe any of it!" Daryl growls, turning to glare at Rick from his position by the fire. He doesn't stand but from how he's looking at Rick he might as well be a King on a throne and Rick his obedient subject, on his knees and begging for mercy.

The silence stretches on and then Rick sighs, rubbing his hand across his mouth. "I think North sounds like the best idea," he says. "I got this feelin'."

Herschel nods after a moment. "That's good enough for me," he says, and then stands. "I'm going to rest."

Andrea shakes her head vehemently. "You're insane," she says. "Goin' on about horsemen and the end of the world. I'm not stayin' here." She looks at Dale. "I'm not staying."

"You think you'll make it on your own?" Daryl asks with a raised eyebrow.

"Better than with someone who could turn on any one of us at any minute."

"You heard him," Glenn says. "It's done. It's over now."

Rick nods, licking his lips as he tries to find the calm and satisfaction that had run through him after killing Pestilence and Famine. He doesn't feel it, but that doesn't necessarily mean he was wrong. It might be his own sense of self-preservation, or grief for the loss of his friend, making him full of doubt. He hopes, when he sleeps, he'll find more answers. He hopes Death comes to him.

Daryl stands, putting his body between Rick and the group. "Stay with me," he says, brushing a hand down Rick's arm, and Rick nods, too weak to resist as Daryl pulls him away from the fire and towards his motorcycle, propped up near the RV. Troublemaker greets them with a soft snort. "I gotta protect you from them."

Rick sighs. "I don't think you do," he says. "There's no killer instinct in any of them."

"From yourself, then," Daryl says. He tightens his hold on Rick's arm and turns him around. "I want you to listen real good for me," he says, leaning in close. His voice is hard, his eyes burning when they stare into Rick's. "If you even _think_ about ending your life, I swear to God I'll…"

Rick licks his lips. "Daryl, you knew this from the beginning," he says. "I never hid my destiny from you."

"I don't _care_ ," Daryl hisses. "Ain't there anythin' in this fucked-up world worth stayin' for?"

Rick sighs.

"If I stay, the world won't ever heal."

"You promised you wouldn't leave me," Daryl says. "That it wouldn't ever be your choice." His hand moves to Rick's wrist and squeezes so hard that it hurts. Rick whines. "You gotta stay. For Carl. Lori's pregnant, you gotta protect her kid. You gotta stay for this group. They trust you."

"Tell me what else," Rick says, shaking his head. "Tell me."

"Fuck you," Daryl breathes, but he doesn't sound angry – he is angry, Rick can feel it rubbing along his skin like an agitated cat, but he doesn't let it show in his voice.

Rick lets out a weak sound. "Tell me," he asks again. " _Please_."

Daryl lets out a short, angry-sounding growl. "You need to stay," he says. "You gotta stay because _I_ need you. You gotta stay 'cause you promised you would. You need to stay 'cause you said you love me and if you go I'll know you're just a fuckin' liar."

Anxiety coils up in Rick's chest and he shakes his head. "I _do_ love you," he says.

Daryl sighs, and nods. "Then stay."

Rick knows he can't say anything else that will appease Daryl. He hopes the answers come to him while he sleeps – maybe Death will appear to him, scythe drawn, and separate Rick's soul from his body while he sleeps so that he doesn't have to do it himself. Will Death let him be so much of a coward?

"I love you," Rick says again.

Daryl nods, pressing his lips together. His hand goes gentle on Rick's wrist. "Stay with me," he says, and it sounds like he's begging.

Finally, Rick nods, closing his eyes. When he opens them again his vision feels heavy but clear, like he's seeing color for the first time. He cups Daryl's neck and pulls him in for a kiss, uncaring of the eyes that might be on them. Daryl answers him, clinging tightly to Rick's bloodied shirt. He's trembling. They both are.

Rick pulls away and rests their foreheads together, his eyes on Daryl's. The blue there is bright and brilliant like sunlight on an ocean where the water gets deep. He wants to drown. "Okay," he finally says, and Daryl lets out a heavy breath. "I'll stay. For you."


	41. Chapter 41

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update guys! I was out of town.  
> This chapter has sexy times.

There's running water in the bathrooms. The group uses it to clean up and wipe the sweat from their faces and necks. There aren't any showers so they can't clean off fully but it's a start, to give them some semblance of washing off the disaster of the previous night. Rick doesn't use the bathrooms. He sits, his back to the RV, and scratches absently at the caked blood on his hands, trying to dig it out from underneath his fingernails.

Daryl watches him do it, his eyes dark and unreadable. He and Troublemaker are the only ones willing to be near Rick at the moment, it seems.

There's a map in the rest stop that spreads out across Georgia. If they get to 95 it'll take them straight up to DC. It's a little under 600 miles which can be done in a day, but Rick doesn't know if they have that much gas. He can't shake the feeling that they'll be walking by the end of it, with only Daryl's motorcycle and maybe the RV if they play it smart and ration everything.

After a while he sighs, looking up and meeting Daryl's eyes. Daryl won't sit next to him, but stays standing, propped up against the side of the RV, arms folded across his shoulders and stance lax. He's looking at Rick though like he expects Rick to spontaneously combust, or pull some weapon out from his person to end his life before Daryl can stop him.

Rick has thought about it, but he needs to die in a way that means he won't be stuck in the limbo of the afterlife. He can't become a walker, because that means he isn't fully dead, and everything he's done so far will have been for nothing.

Daryl blinks and heaves a breath through his nose. "You should sleep," he says. The solution to everything, it seems, is sleep. _Things will look better in the morning_. But they won't. When Rick wakes he'll still have his friend's blood on his hands and the group's distrust weighing on his shoulders.

Still, he should sleep. Maybe Death will come to him and tell him once and for all if Shane was War, if it really is over. Maybe he'll tell Rick if North is the best way to go. Maybe he'll do _something_. But his mind resists it, too busy running a hundred miles an hour. If he sleeps, and finds out that he's the last one, then he'll know what he has to do. But he promised he would stay – for Daryl, And he promised that he would stay alive. And he doesn't want to die.

He doesn't fear Death but he doesn't want to die, either. He doesn't want to leave his family behind. He doesn't want to leave _Daryl_ behind.

Rick puts his head in his hands and runs his fingers through his hair. "I don't know if I can," he replies honestly. The rest of the group is still gathered around the fire. The children are asleep and the adults are splitting a ration of candy bars and chips from the vending machines. He can hear Beth singing quietly – it's a nice song, but sad. Herschel hasn't returned from resting in one of the cars.

He wonders what might have happened if it had all gone differently. Maybe he should have stayed in his coma, and when he'd woken he wouldn't have had to convince the world that it was destined to shatter. He wouldn't have had to see the fear in Lori's eyes or hear her ask him again and again what he was doing, _how am I going to explain this to Carl?_ He wouldn't have had to hurt Shane. He wouldn't have met any of these people, maybe.

But that's a fool's thought. Destiny can't be changed, not by someone like him. He's a pawn – or is he? He is Death, Death _chose_ him. But why? What could he have done that wouldn't have been better handled by someone like Daryl, or Shane, or even Glenn?

He wouldn't wish this burden on anyone else but he doesn't want it for himself either. He feels so defeated, raw down to the core like someone scraped his insides with iron wool. He's so _tired_. He wants to sleep but he can't and he wants to keep moving but the group deserves rest after what he's done to them.

If he hadn't been there, Carl would have still been shot. The herd would have ravaged the Greene farm. They'd all be dead. That isn't Death's role. Death doesn't preserve the living. Death doesn't _care_.

Daryl makes another sound and finally sits next to him. He takes Rick's hand from his head and lifts his knuckles to his mouth, his eyes sad. "Can I help?" he asks, and Rick shakes his head because he honestly doesn't know the answer.

"This doesn't feel like the others did," Rick says weakly. "This doesn't feel… _right_. But is that because I was wrong or because it was Shane? I don't _know_."

"I don't, either," Daryl replies just as quietly. He kisses Rick's hand again and Rick can feel Lori's eyes on them from the campfire but he doesn't turn to look at her. Daryl's eyes move to the side, then back to meet Rick's gaze. He stands, grabbing his bag, still holding Rick's hand. "Come with me."

Rick stands and follows Daryl into the men's bathroom. The smeared-out names of the horsemen mock him and he turns his face away, ducking into the semi-light of the bathroom. The light here is low and he's barely able to see but he can see Daryl's shadow and make out the lines of his face.

Daryl turns and puts his hands on Rick's shoulders, forcing their eyes to meet. "You said we should go North," he says, and Rick nods, feeling another flicker of _yes_ in his head. He feels like North is the answer. It's the smartest option to them – they'd have to go back around Atlanta to reach the coast and who knows what they might find in there. North promises open spaces, a chance for other survivors, a chance for safety. "Did Death tell you that?"

Rick shakes his head. "No. Just a feelin'."

"A feelin'," Daryl says. "What kind of feelin'?"

"Just…a feelin'," Rick repeats, shaking his head again. He sighs and turns his face away but Daryl catches him and forces their eyes to meet again. Rick feels caught, trapped in blue amber, unable to look away. Daryl searches his face for what feels like forever before he nods, biting the inside of his lower lip.

"You were sure about Famine," he says. "You were sure about Pestilence."

"Yes," Rick replies.

"But not War?"

"I don't know if it's because he was the last or because it was Shane or whatever else it might be. That's…that's what War _is_. Chaos. Uncertainty. No promise of the next day. That's what this is and if I'm feeling it…" He cuts himself off and lets out a low whine. "What if I was wrong? What if he's still out there, taunting me? What if he's _watching_."

Daryl nods, sighing heavily. "I think you should sleep," he says, petting through Rick's hair. "You're always more sure after you sleep. Whatever you see there, it helps you decide."

"And what if I see nothing?" Rick asks. "What if I'm the only one left? What if…what if Death comes to me and tells me I have to die next? Will you accept that?"

Daryl shakes his head. "No," he says. "But at least you'll know."

"Sometimes I'm not even sure Death is real," Rick admits, a quiet whisper. "Sometimes I think he might just be in my head, too. That means I've killed people, and so have you, that didn't have to die."

"Rick, I think it's pretty safe to say it ain't all in your head," Daryl says with a huff. "We both saw the end of the world. We both saw Woodmore. That ain't…that ain't just a joint hallucination. He _hurt_ you. Famine hurt you. War could have… _Shane_ could have hurt you. Beth said he killed Patricia. That _means_ somethin'."

Rick nods, slowly, accepting that. "I need to sleep," he says, and Daryl lets out a breath that sounds relieved. "I'm too awake, though. I don't know if I can."

Daryl nods, once. His eyes flash to the door to the restroom and he lets Rick go and goes over to it, shutting the door and sliding the bolt into place. Rick watches him as he turns back and goes back to him. "I know a way to tire you out," he says, pushing at Rick's chest until Rick's back hits the dirty wall.

Before Rick can protest – unsure if he even would if he could – Daryl kisses him, sliding into place against his chest, his hands wrapping tight in Rick's shirt. Rick lets out a quiet, desperate breath, one hand sliding to Daryl's hair and the other landing on his hip. Daryl's hands drag down and he undoes Rick's gun belt, letting the holster and Rick's machete fall to the floor between their feet.

Rick shivers, his hands shaking when Daryl touches him, letting out a sharp breath when he feels Daryl's hand wrap around his cock through his jeans and squeeze it gently. The effect is instant, his body lightning up as though he's been struck with a brand, heat and desire spreading out from each point of contact between his body and Daryl's and setting every part of him ablaze. It feels like Death's touch but so much hotter, life instead of that certainty. He kisses Daryl again and lets out a quiet moan, arching against the touch of Daryl's hand.

Daryl hums, tilting his head to one side and deepening the kiss as Rick grinds against his hand. Rick feels unsteady, his legs locking to keep himself falling, desperately clinging to Daryl as the heat and the need overtakes him.

Daryl separates from his mouth, kissing at Rick's blood-caked jaw and neck and resting his forehead against Rick's shoulder as his fingers deftly unfasten his belt and jeans, pushing them down to his thighs. His hand goes right back to Rick's cock and the feeling of his warm, dry palm against his sensitive skin makes Rick gasp, head tilting back.

"You want me on my knees?" Daryl asks, his voice low and breathless. Rick shakes his head, clinging to Daryl's hair desperately.

"Kiss me," he demands and Daryl instantly, eagerly, answers him. Rick moans again when Daryl's hand tightens at the head of his cock, thumb swiping through the slit to gather the precome there and using it as a little bit of slick to ease the way for his hand. Rick shakes, his fingers tightening on Daryl's hip as he moves his body, thrusting slowly into the circle of Daryl's fingers.

Daryl's kiss makes Rick feel light-headed and like he's floating. He doesn't ever want to come down. Maybe he'll fall from this great height and bash his body against the ground, or maybe it'll swallow him up in oceans the color of Daryl's eyes and he'll drown in it. He doesn't know, but he's aching somewhere in the pit of his stomach, desperate for more closeness, for more of Daryl's touch.

Daryl pulls his hand away and breaks the kiss just long enough to spit on his fingers and palm and then he brings his hand back and Rick growls, closing his eyes at the feeling of slick on his cock. Daryl's grip is tight, punishing almost, teasing at Rick and making him thirsty for more.

Daryl kisses him again, his eyes heavy and dark. "You can fuck me if you want," he says, and Rick gasps. "I got lube from that medical store when we went. You can do it."

"Is that what you want?" Rick asks, his voice thick.

Daryl nods. "Yeah."

"I – we should -." Rick shakes his head. "It should be on a bed. Or _somethin_ '."

"Don't think we'll have a bed for a long time," Daryl replies mildly. His hand doesn't slow on Rick's cock, still stroking him with measured, even motions. It feels like it's driving Rick insane, teasing at that desire sitting at the base of his neck and fanning the flames until it consumes him whole.

Rick lets out a weak sound. "You want me to fuck you?" he asks, tugging on Daryl's hair so that he has to lean back and he can see Daryl's eyes. They're black with desire and he can see Daryl's own erection pressed against the inside of his jeans.

Daryl licks his lips and nods. Rick lets out another weak sound and bites his lower lip, _hard_ , before he eases his grip on Daryl's body. Daryl draws back and reaches for his bag, discarded in a nearby sink, and pulls out a plain-looking, small bottle of lube. Rick laughs breathlessly when he realizes that this had been Daryl's intention all along, he'd even come prepared.

"Did you know I'd say yes?" Rick asks.

Daryl offers him a little shrug, smirking. "I know you," he replies, handing Rick the bottle. "You'll do anything you think I want."

Rick bites his lip. "It… _is_ what you want, right?"

Daryl rolls his eyes and kisses him in answer, crushing Rick against the wall again for another brief moment. "Open it," he says, and Rick obeys as Daryl turns his hands to his own belt and jeans and undoes them. He pulls at Rick until they're reversed, Daryl's back to the wall and Rick leaning against his chest. "Use one finger first. Go slow. I'll tell you when I'm ready."

"Okay," Rick whispers, and Daryl turns, one hand reaching back to keep Rick steady, the other planted against the dirty wall. Rick presses up against him, his cock rubbing against Daryl's bare ass, and he lets out a shuddery exhale.

He pulls back just enough to squirt some of the lube on his fingers and then tosses the bottle back into a sink. His free hand flattens on Daryl's tailbone, sliding up. He can feel hard knots there, like scars. He knows what scars feel like – he has some to match. Daryl goes a little tense and only relaxes when Rick leans down to kiss at his dirty hair, his hand sliding to the more neutral territory of Daryl's hip.

Daryl breathes out. He's so warm under Rick's weight, as steady as Rick's horse when Rick circles his ass with one slick fingers and then slowly starts to push inside. He's burning hot on the inside, tight and clenching and Rick lets out another soft groan.

Daryl hums, arching back for more so that the rest of Rick's finger slips inside. " _Fuck_ ," he hisses, his voice tight, and Rick nuzzles against his shoulder and breathes in his scent. "S'been a while. Move your finger, gotta get stretched out."

Rick nods, swallowing back the needless flare of jealousy at the thought of Daryl's lovers, how many he's had, how many have had him like this. If Daryl did this for all of them or this secret, vulnerable place was just for Rick. He supposes it doesn't matter – if he has his way, Rick will be the only one for Daryl now.

He circles his finger around, testing the give of Daryl's rim, and Daryl sighs, relaxing just a little around him. He pulls his finger back almost all the way and works in the tip of his second one and Daryl moans quietly, shaking finely as Rick works them back inside.

Daryl curses again, breathless and raw, his hand tightening over Rick's where it's still resting on his hip. The fingers against the wall clench and his knuckles go white.

"Am I hurting you?" Rick asks, ready to stop immediately.

Daryl shakes his head. Rick can taste the sweat on the back of his neck. "Try and – try and curl your fingers down. There's a spot – _yes_." Rick finds it under Daryl's guidance, a little place that feels different than the white-hot clench of Daryl's ass around his fingers. It's a little spot of nerves, rough to the touch and Rick remembers feeling a spot like that inside of Lori. It's sensitive, used to make her wild. He circles it gently and Daryl moans, louder now, his breathing unsteady.

"F-feels good, Rick," Daryl says, his voice almost completely gone. Rick can't see but he knows Daryl is hard now. He recognizes the little movement of his hips, instinct telling him to thrust into something warm and wet. Rick opens his mouth and sucks a dark kiss against Daryl's exposed neck. " _Fuck_ , yeah, just – _shit_. Gimme another finger."

Rick obeys, not pulling out his first two as he works in the third. He immediately goes back to rubbing against that spot inside of Daryl, rougher with it now as he feels Daryl clench with every swipe and brush of his fingers. Daryl whines, such a sweet sound, his forehead against the bathroom wall as he trembles in Rick's hold.

"I love seeing you like this," Rick whispers, kissing over the mark he just left on Daryl's neck. Daryl whines, tilting his head to one side so that Rick can see the edge of his reddened cheek, the glazed look in his dark eyes.

Daryl straightens as best he can and turns his head, cheek pressed against Rick's mouth and Rick kisses him, before he moves his hand from Daryl's hip and helps him hold his head so that they can kiss properly. He keeps rubbing against Daryl's prostate, desperate to feel more of that promising tightness, thirsty for the way Daryl shivers and whines whenever he does it.

Daryl parts from the kiss with a gasp, lips red, eyes flashing with desire. "'M ready," he says, and turns back to face the wall. "You can, now."

Rick nods and pulls his fingers out, rubbing the remaining lube along the shaft of his cock. His cockhead is leaking now, his erection red and thick with arousal. He's honestly not sure how he's going to fit inside of Daryl but trusts Daryl to tell him if it's too much and they need more time. His blood is burning and his head is pounding.

He tightens his hand on Daryl's exposed him and his other one wraps around Daryl's raised arm, fingers digging into his shoulder through his clothes. He rubs against Daryl's back, breathing heavily, and then moves his hips so the head of his cock catches on Daryl's hole and starts to sink inside.

Daryl is _hot_ , clenching tightly around the sudden, thick intrusion. Daryl makes a weak, whimpering sound, arching back against Rick in encouragement, and Rick closes his eyes and pushes in with a little more force. He gasps when he feels Daryl's body parting for him, letting him in easily. He's slick and hot on the inside, so tight Rick can hardly see. He isn't going to last long.

He slides in until he can't go any deeper, clinging to Daryl desperately as he breathes heavily through his mouth. Daryl moans, his head tilted back so that Rick can kiss and lick at his neck. His heartbeat is thundering under Rick's mouth, his hand tightly wrapped around Rick's.

Then, Daryl moves, a short and uneven rock of his hips and Rick moans, unable to stop himself pulling back and thrusting back in roughly. Daryl lets out another sound of encouragement and Rick fucks into him again, as deep as he can get. He lets go of Daryl's shoulder and wraps his arm around Daryl's chest instead, holding him tightly as he builds up a rhythm.

" _Fuck_ ," Daryl hisses, clenching up tightly around him. It feels amazing, better than any high or any drink Rick has ever had. He thinks about how Daryl had held him after he went to his knees for Daryl in the woods and how he'd said that Rick ruins him and thinks that the feeling is definitely mutual. "Mm, _shit_ , Rick, just like that, _fuck_ yes -."

He chokes on his words as Rick fucks into him, and then Rick pushes himself a little more upright even though his body screams at separating from any part of Daryl, and he grabs Daryl's hips and tries to angle his cock so that it brushes against that spot inside of him that his fingers had found. He knows when he finds it, Daryl locks up and whimpers and Rick bares his teeth and tries to do it again, and again. Daryl's hand drops from his hip and Rick can see his arm moving as he strokes his cock in time with Rick's thrusts.

It's consuming, obliterating. Rick can feel his vision greying out on the edges, that need in his stomach sinking down and his chest getting tight. His nails dig into Daryl's skin and he lets out a rough, needy sound.

" _Daryl_ ," he growls, shaking his head to try and cling to some semblance of control. Nothing comes. He's on his own, lost to the feeling of Daryl's body opening and splitting for him and it doesn't make sense but he thinks Daryl's body might be trying to keep him there, desperate for Rick to penetrate him and _stay_. He wants to _stay_.

"Gonna come," Daryl grunts, and Rick snarls in answer because _yes_ , he wants that. He keeps his pace as steady as he can for Daryl to ride the wave of it, climb another step with each thrust of Rick's cock and then he feels Daryl bearing down, ass getting so tight that Rick has to stop moving because it feels like he's choking. Daryl's ass is greedy, clenching tight around him and the man groans, slamming his hand against the wall and it looks like he collapses in on himself, trembling and sweaty and altogether ruined.

" _God_ ," Rick sighs when he feels Daryl go abruptly lax, his ass slick and wet and still tight but no longer suffocating him. He moves again, hesitating when he feels Daryl tense and lets out a soft whine. "You okay?"

Daryl nods, breathing heavily. "Sensitive," he says, and Rick's hands soften on him. "Just give me a minute. Don't pull out."

Rick obeys, and settles himself for stroking his hands down Daryl's heaving flanks and feeling the man's heartbeat slow down and steady itself out under his touch. Then Daryl clenches up around him again, a deliberate thing, and Rick feels a moan wrenched from his chest.

"Do it," Daryl commands and Rick has no more power in him to disobey than he does to fight the tides or tell the sun not to rise. He wraps his arms around Daryl's chest and Daryl's hand goes to his, bringing one up to kiss. Rick starts to move again, his thrusts shallow and short. Knowing that Daryl wants him like this, is willing to have him like this, is almost divine in how strong the feeling is. He wants to consume Daryl in his entirety, soak himself into the man and -. "Come in me, Rick. C'mon. Stay with me."

"God, _Daryl,"_ Rick whispers, like the names are one and the same and maybe they are. Daryl is an angel, holy and pure, and he has given himself to Rick and Rick will fight tooth and nail to keep him by his side. He rests his forehead against Daryl's back and bares his teeth, his orgasm blossoming out from his chest. He pulls back and thrusts in – deep, long things that he knows Daryl is feeling at his core. Daryl is moaning weakly, gentle encouragements to spur Rick on.

He thrusts deep and goes still, shuddering as his cock twitches and that building feeling finally _gives_ , desire flooding out of him and into Daryl's body. His orgasm crushes his lungs and burns at his eyes, tearing some piece of him out and leaving it inside of Daryl for the other man to keep and hold like a possession.

He opens his eyes when the waves recede and it feels like he can breathe again. He kisses the mark he left on Daryl's neck and pulls out with a wince, marveling at the slick that follows his cock as he parts from Daryl's body. He's hungry for it again already and wonders how in the Hell he's going to go without now that he knows what Daryl feels like on the inside, what he sounds like when he's begging Rick to move, how he feels when he's coming on Rick's cock and moaning his name.

Daryl turns, pulling his jeans back up around his hips and Rick follows suit, but he can't stay parted from Daryl for long. He takes him by the hair and kisses him, pressing him hard against the tile wall. Daryl moans weakly, pawing at Rick's chest and loose clothes, and kisses him back just as ardently, with just as much fervor. Rick wonders if he feels the same way – if, now that his body knows what Rick feels like, he'll be able to be strong and resist that pull. The bond between them feels solid and iron, unbreakable, forged in lava and Rick will be _damned_ if he ever lets that link crack or sever.

Rick kisses him until there's no more air that they can grab and they part with deep, gasping breaths. Daryl's cheeks are pink, his eyes dark with lingering arousal, his lips red and bruised from Rick's kisses. Rick touches his face and rests their foreheads together, breathing deeply.

"I don't think I could ever leave you," he confesses, and Daryl's breath hitches. "I won't ever leave you. I love you."

Daryl's fingers are shaking when they run through Rick's hair and he smiles – that same smile that had made Rick so enamored with him in the first place. Something secret and joyous and only for Rick. Rick feels contented and calm, exhausted to the bone. He kisses Daryl again.

"Do you think you can sleep now?" Daryl asks, and Rick sighs.

"Probably," he admits, and Daryl huffs a laugh. "Will you stay with me?"

"You want to sleep here?" Daryl asks, one eyebrow raised.

Rick nods, pulling back so that he can look around. "I like it in here," he says. "It's…quiet."

Daryl looks at him for a moment, before he nods. "Okay," he says. "We'll grab some blankets and we can sleep in here." He pulls his clothes into a little more semblance of correctness and Rick smiles when he sees the dark hickey he left on Daryl's neck. Daryl catches him looking and blushes. "And don't think I'm gonna let you get away with that again."

"Won't you?" Rick asks.

Daryl rolls his eyes and goes back to the door, brushing his hand across Rick's stomach as he does so. "Nah. Probably will."


	42. Chapter 42

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man going out of town really screwed up my mindset for writing/posting. Anyway! Here you go.  
> I kind of ended up implying that Lori is asexual and I'm running with it but not tagging it because it's not real representation but it was given the seal of approval from my ace-spectrum friends so Lori is now ace in this story enjoy. Also I know Lori is not being the best person right now but honestly if I were her I doubt I'd be acting any better but I guess warning for Lori saying some pretty awful things.

The bathroom feels like a tomb. It's dark and quiet and warm in that damp kind of way before thunderstorms or just after rain. Rick likes it in here – lying down with Daryl by his side, the both of them curled up against each other against some chill that doesn't exist. He thinks he could happily stay here forever, without the judgmental glares of their group or the pressure of his destiny weighing down on him. He can just…be. He likes it in here.

Daryl stirs, eyelids fluttering open as he takes in a breath that has the harsh edge of awareness in it, and Rick smiles when he sees those gorgeous dark blue eyes. He knows what love and what obsession feels like, what urgency and patience is. With Daryl it all mixes together. When he'd first met Lori he _knew_ he had to speak to her, he knew he had to be with her. That had been an urgent thing, immediate and strong and when the distance had lengthened they had found themselves unable to keep pace. It happened.

With Daryl it only feels urgent when the moment calls for it – right now Rick is calm, steadied out. He's keeping pace and soldiering on and he can feel Daryl doing the same, step for step and breath for breath. The urgency and impatience burns for something fleeting – he wants to reach out and touch Daryl so he does, greets his sleep-slack mouth with a kiss that tastes of morning breath but he doesn't care and Daryl huffs a laugh but he doesn't seem to mind either.

He kisses Daryl and threads a hand through his dirty hair and pulls them close together so that the warm air gets warmer and is forced to shift like some great slumbering beast to make way for them. He rolls so that he can pull Daryl on top of him, laying across him, their chests touching and legs tangling together. He feels Daryl press his hands against Rick's chest, sliding up and around to curl under Rick's arms.

Daryl doesn't resist him, melts against him whenever Rick pulls him close. He reaches for Rick just as often as Rick reaches for him. With Lori there had always been a time and a place, she's shy of public displays of affection, had always wanted to maintain her carefully cultivated image of propriety and upstanding citizenship. Rick had never minded – she had never given him any reason to think differently, after all, and he was okay with saving his touches and his kisses for when they were alone in their bedroom and she would allow him close.

Daryl doesn't care about that shit, though. He doesn't care about propriety, or who sees them together, or whatever other people might think. He doesn't force Rick into the steady pace but guides him there naturally with plenty of slack for the urgency. Rick thinks he might be able to travel to the end of the world, the end of time, with Daryl by his side.

Daryl pulls back with a gasp, his cheeks and lips pink. He smiles – this lopsided and happy thing. "Mornin' to you, too," he says.

Rick smiles and tugs on his hair, guiding him back into another kiss. His free hand slides down Daryl's side until he reaches a bare patch of skin revealed from the way his shirt has ridden up. The skin there is warm and Daryl shivers at the touch.

Daryl's hands go to his hair, sliding through and pushing his hair back from his face. Rick moans softly, the warmth between them rearing up to something hotter, more pressing. He doesn't even know if they have time for this shit, he should check outside and make sure everyone didn't just pack up and go while they were in here, but this is the first time in as far as he can remember when he actually felt righted and grounded and he's loathe to let that go.

His neck starts to hurt from leaning up to kiss Daryl so he breaks the kiss and Daryl nuzzles him, letting out a quiet sigh as he rests his cheek against Rick's chest, his hair tickling the underneath of Rick's chin. "I don't want to let go," he says.

Daryl hums, his fingers drumming absently on Rick's chest. "Know the feelin'," he says. "Kinda scares me."

"What about it scares you?" Rick asks. He still has one hand in Daryl's hair and he starts to pet through it slowly, curling the ends around his fingers, brushing it back from Daryl's neck and face. Daryl doesn't turn his head and Rick can't see his eyes.

"I just…know what you're like," Daryl says. "But even if we do survive this and make it through on the other side…there's no guarantee we'll be together the whole time, you know? And it scares me what might happen. What we might do if we're separated too long."

"You said 'we' that time," Rick murmurs.

"Yeah." Daryl swallows, Rick hears him do it. "I don't like being not near you."

"Even when I'm near you it doesn't feel like enough," Rick confesses. He squeezes his hand in Daryl's hair as if to emphasize. "I don't know how I'm going to go a single day without touching you."

Daryl lifts his head, a small frown on his face. "You can touch me," he says, sounding confused.

Rick shakes his head. "Not out there," he replies, gesturing towards the door.

Daryl regards him for a moment, before he licks his lips. He seems to be considering his words very carefully so that he says the right ones to get his point across; "The only one gonna stop you doin' anythin' is you," he says, and then shakes his head and lets out a frustrated grunt. "I mean, _I'm_ not gonna stop you."

Rick blinks at him, before he sits up. Daryl moves with him until they're sitting on the floor and facing each other. "You'd let me?" he asks, sounding weak.

Daryl nods, slowly. "Already have, I mean – Beth 'n' Maggie saw it. Done it in the field, sure others have seen me kiss you. We sleep together every night. Gotta be dumber than a sack o' bricks not to know we're together by now."

"I know, but…" Rick shakes his head. "I guess I just – that's a foreign thing, I guess. Never been allowed to before."

Daryl looks him up at down before he blinks, a surprised expression coming over his face. "Really?" he asks. Rick shakes his head again. "Lori never -?"

"I mean, cheek kisses, quick hugs, stuff like that," Rick replies with a shrug. "But she didn't like public affection. I never minded. She told me she didn't like it from the start. Wouldn't even hold my hand until we'd been dating a while."

"…So _that's_ why…. I see. That's crazy," Daryl says with a disbelieving huff. "God, if you were mine I'd make damn sure everyone knew it."

Rick laughs. "You already do."

"Because you are," Daryl says, nodding. "You're mine now. Have been since the beginning, haven't you?"

Rick nods, licking his lips. "Maybe before that," he says. "Can't say for sure. I don't know when it turned from friendship to something else, couldn't name a time or a moment."

Daryl thinks about it for a moment. "I can," he says, and Rick looks at him curiously. "It was…that first house. Right after we picked up Merle, you remember?" Rick blinks and nods. "We got into a fight because you wanted to sleep in the dining room, put yourself as the first line of defense. I didn't get it because I still thought…I dunno. I still saw you as this person I had ta take care of. But that night – that night I saw you and I feel like I saw the you that Lori and Shane knew."

Rick swallows. "I haven't been that man for a while," he says.

"That's not what I mean," Daryl replies, shaking his head. "I mean I saw…I didn't just see someone crazy. It's bad but in the facility we had to all kinda look at people the same way. I couldn't let myself think of you as anything other than someone with a mental disorder who needed to be taken care of. But you _don't_ need to be taken care of. Never have. And that night I felt like something just clicked and I saw that. I _realized_ that. And that's when it started."

Rick smiles, but it's a sad thing. "I understand," he says. He remembers that night, how bristly and angry Daryl had been, confused and afraid and how that seems to have melted away. He's confident, self-assured, thriving in this new world with Rick guiding and guarding him. And Rick feels stronger now, too, even from last night he feels like there's something still worth going for. North. He wants to head North.

Daryl's eyes flash to the door and he sighs. "I don't want to go back out there," he says, sounding petulant and young, and Rick laughs, reminded of how Carl used to sound when he'd get him up and ready for school.

He pushes himself to his feet and makes sure his clothes are sitting comfortably and normally on his body, stained and dirty though they ar. He holds out a hand and Daryl grabs his forearm, fingers gripping tight, and lets Rick haul him to his feet. It's a little off-angle since Rick is using his left arm and it's not as coordinated, still. His right wrist feels better, though, and doesn't look at red anymore. He can move his fingers but they can't curl all the way.

Daryl and Rick grab the one blanket Daryl had pilfered from the supplies the group had to hand. They'd used his bag as a pillow, and their arms. Rick slings his gun belt back around his waist and makes sure his gun and machete are in place before they head outside. They unlock the bathroom and step out into the outside air. The sky is a bright blue, early mid-morning Rick would guess.

Glenn approaches them with a big smile. "Rick! I was just about to come get you. Carl's awake."

Rick's eyes widen and he almost drops the blanket. "He's…?" he says weakly, before he looks away from Glenn towards the place where the campfire was. There's nothing burning there now. Rick's eyes widen when he sees the familiar brown of his old hat, Carl's dirty mop of brown hair and his skinny shoulders hunched up, sitting close between Lori and Carol. "Oh my _God_."

He shoves the blanket into Glenn's arms and starts over towards the fire pit. Carl looks up, eyes widening when he sees him, and lunges to his feet and runs into Rick's arms. His movements are shaky and slow and he's clearly still in pain from his injuries but that doesn't stop him moving as quickly as he can until he's wrapped up in Rick's arms. Rick falls to his knees and hugs his son tightly, huge sobs of relief shaking his shoulders as he wraps one arm around Carl's shoulders and the other fisting tightly in his hair. Carl clings back to him, little fingers clenched in Rick's bloody shirt and face buried in his neck.

"Dad," Carl breathes, his voice so young-sounding and afraid.

"I'm here," Rick says, holding him as tight as he dares as he feels Carl start to cry. His shoulder and neck gets wet and he wants to wrap Carl up as tightly as he can, take away his pain and his suffering and absorb it into himself. He pets a hand through Carl's hair, pushing the hat off his head, and breaths in a deep lungful of his scent. "I'm right here, God, I'm so glad you're okay."

"Mom told me Shane's dead," Carl says, pulling back and wiping his red, tear-streaked face with his hands. Rick bites his lip and wonders how much Lori actually told him. She has been kind in the past, giving Carl the sugar-coated version of everything that's been happening but now she's just angry and just scared enough to maybe tell him the truth. "Is that true?"

Rick nods, his hands settling on Carl's shoulders. "Yeah," he says, nodding. "That's true. He got you to some nice people who helped you, but their farm got overrun with the walkers and he didn't make it."

Carl's eyes fill with new tears and he sucks in a breath, his fists clenching tight as he tries to make himself not cry. Rick's heart breaks at the sight. "Mom said that…" He wipes at his face again and his voice cracks. "Dad, I had some really bad dreams."

Rick blinks, tilting his head to one side. "What kind of dreams?" he asks.

Carl shakes his head. "There was this man," he says. "This tall man in black. I could hear his voice in my head and he was telling me all these things. And then there was another man – a red King. And he just kept _laughing_ and _laughing_." The tears start to fall again and Rick can't take it anymore. He pulls Carl into another hug, his heart hammering over what Carl has just told him. A man in black and a red King – Death and War? But _why_? Why would they appear to _Carl_?

When will this all be over?

"I was so scared," Carl whispers, his voice muffled. "They kept chasing me and talking to me and I couldn't escape."

"You're awake now," Rick says, kissing his temple and then pulling back to hold Carl's head in his hands. "You're awake and you're with me and I ain't gonna let anythin' happen to you, okay?"

Carl licks his lips, swallowing harshly, and nods. Rick smiles and pulls him into another hug before he gets to his feet. "Carl, you remember Daryl, right?" he says, knowing Daryl is hovering a respectful distance behind them. He turns and smiles at Daryl and Daryl gives an awkward half-wave that Carl shyly returns. "Well, if you ask 'im _real_ nicely, I think he can score some pudding for you." He squeezes Carl's shoulder and looks over at Daryl. "I'm gonna go talk to Lori for a second."

Daryl's eyes flash, but Rick doesn't see any sign of jealousy or anger on his face. He's just worried – that's the most likely explanation. Rick waits until he sees Daryl give a slight nod of acceptance, and then Daryl gestures for Carl to come to him and leads him over to his bike. Troublemaker is standing there as well and Carl looks at the animal with wide eyes.

Sure that between Daryl and Troublemaker he has a few moments of guaranteed distraction, he walks over to Lori. She's standing now, her jaw clenched but she looks like she's desperately trying to hide her anger and contempt for Rick, trying to remain aloof.

She's never been good at that. Rick can read her like an open book. "Can I talk to you?" he asks, and her eyes narrow but she nods and allows him to lead her away from the fire pit to a relatively empty part of the parking lot.

She stands in silence, the wind stirring up her hair and her loose shirt. She looks like a statue of justice, stony and silent and Rick feels like he should honestly be on his knees right now, begging for her forgiveness. He would if he thought he had a snowball's chance in Hell of getting it.

Her eyes narrow and her jaw clenches, and she breaks first. "What did you want to talk about?" she demands.

Rick licks his lips and presses them together. "I know you're angry."

"I'm a damn fucking sight more than just _angry_ , Rick," she says icily. "You killed your best friend – my _husband_ – and then have the gall to fuck that _man_ ten feet from me and _your son._ "

"Okay," Rick says, holding up a hand. "First of all, you can cut that crap. I heard you and Shane having sex in the quarry and Carl shared a _tent_ with you."

"Yes, well," Lori says with a flip of her hair, "married people are supposed to have sex, Rick. _He_ is not your _husband_."

"His name is _Daryl_ , Lori," Rick says. "It's _Daryl_ , and he was there for me and has never turned his back on me for a fucking _second_. And I love him!"

"You can't love him," Lori says. "You haven't known him long enough."

"I loved you as soon as I saw you," Rick says quietly, and Lori blinks, her eyes widening. "I loved Carl as soon as I heard his heartbeat at that doctor's appointment. I know it's not how everyone works – it's not how you work, it's not how Shane worked either I'd bet. But it's how _I_ work and it doesn't happen to everyone. I love you and I love Shane and I love Carl and I love Daryl and it's all different the way I do it but it's still _real_."

"And look where it got us," Lori says. There's less anger in her voice now, she sounds defeated and afraid and ' _What am I going to tell Carl, Rick?'._ "Shane's dead, Carl's talkin' about fucking…" She shakes her head and runs her hands through her hair. "Did you tell you what he dreamed about?"

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about," Rick replies.

"Then why didn't you fucking _say_ that?" she demands, and then shakes her head and holds up both hands to stop his reply. "No. I don't care anymore. How…how did he know?" she asks. "Did you tell him? About your – about any of it?"

"No," Rick says with a shake of his head. "I promise I didn't. I didn't tell him and I didn't talk about it around him." He pauses for a moment and she stares at him with wide, teary eyes. "Lori, I know you don't wanna hear it, but we gotta consider the possibility that…"

"No," she says harshly, her fists clenching. " _No_. Don't you fucking _dare_."

"Why are you so afraid that I'm right?" Rick demands. "If I'm right then that means I can _fix it_."

"Because if you're right then that means Shane deserved to die and I can't accept that!" Lori yells. "And that means everyone else you've killed deserved to die and that means you're some _God_ or some other fucking shit and I can't accept that!"

Rick sighs, shaking his head. "Then I don't know what to say."

"Damn it, Rick!" Lori hisses. She looks like she desperately wants to reach out and slap him and hit him and do any other number of things to him but she holds herself back. The tears have started to run down her face and her pale skin is red with anger. Then, she steps forward, her voice lowered; "If you're right, and you have to die, then go fucking _do it_ and leave me and my son out of it."

"He's my son, too," Rick says, his voice hard. "And he's seeing it, too. I need to find out why."

"You're a fucking coward," Lori growls, and then she turns away and stalks back to the fire pit. Carl is there, talking with Carol and Michonne and sharing a pudding cup with Andre. Daryl walks by her and she stops and regards him with a cold look. They're standing near enough that Rick can hear them.

"You got a problem?" Daryl asks quietly.

"I know you think you're helping him," Lori says. "You're not. He's going to lead us right into Hell."

Then she walks away and Daryl watches her go, before he shakes his head and walks up to Rick. "Well, based on that, I'm guessing you guys had a fun conversation."

"Carl dreamed about Death and War," Rick says.

Daryl blinks, eyes widening. "What?" he asks.

"But he woke up today," Rick continues. "So…does that mean War's dead? He said War was laughing – why would he be laughing?" He makes a frustrated sound and looks over Daryl's shoulder at the boy. "I have to find out. I didn't dream last night."

Daryl nods. "Just…be careful, Rick," he says. Rick looks at him. "You've had months to come to grips with the fact that this happening. Carl hasn't. He's been protected, right? He doesn't know anythin' about what's going on?"

Rick nods and Daryl sighs. "Then you just gotta be careful. He's just a kid."

"I know," Rick says, defensively. "He's my son."

Daryl looks at him for a moment. "You gonna tell him you killed Shane?" he asks.

"If it comes to that," Rick replies.

"If it comes to that," Daryl parrots, before he heaves a sigh and nods. "Alright."

"Wait." Rick reaches out when Daryl turns away and catches his arm. "What does that mean?"

Daryl shakes his head. "Didn't mean nothin'."

"Bullshit."

"I just don't know if you're the right person to ask about it," Daryl says. "I think you're too close to this. I think you're gonna hear what he says and believe what you wanna believe, but you don't know what you would rather believe, and it's going to upset you both."

"Then what would you have me do?" Rick asks, letting go of Daryl.

Daryl follows him, closing the space between them with a step, and gently touches Rick's cheek. "Don't," he says, searching Rick's face. "Don't…I know what you're thinkin'. Stop thinkin' like that." His hand smooths out along Rick's jaw and Rick sighs. "Stop panicking."

"I'm scared," Rick says. "I think Lori's going to try and take him away from me."

"We'll deal with that if it happens," Daryl says. "Stop worrying about what might happen and focus on what is happening. Let _me_ talk to Carl."

Rick blinks at him. "You'd do that?"

Daryl nods, and Rick smiles and closes his eyes, turning his head to kiss at Daryl's palm. "Okay," he says, before he opens his eyes again to meet Daryl's gaze. "But… _promise_ me. Don't lie. I want to know everything he says. I need to know. Promise me."

"I swear," Daryl says. Then his hand slides around to the nape of Rick's neck and he pulls him in for a kiss. It's not quick and it's not chaste and when they break away Rick lets out a whimper of desire that makes Daryl smile.


	43. Chapter 43

_I feel safer with you._

_The red King was laughing, dad. He was chasing me and laughing._

_You're too close to this._

Rick is restless, and puts his attention to use trying to secure the rest stop a little better. They aren't going to stay here long, he's sure, but that doesn't mean they should just let anything happen upon them. Every now and again a walker ambles towards them and is quickly put down by one of the group but for the most part they are left alone.

Rick remembers a little of what Daryl taught him about setting up snares so he places a few at the forested entrance of the rest stop and rigs up lines of plastic and empty cans from the garbage cans and dumpster so that they will know when someone, alive or otherwise, comes their way.

Although Lori seems fine enough to let Rick alone time to talk to Carl alone, she is not as comfortable to leave Daryl alone with him. He can see the three of them clustered around the fire pit and deep in conversation. Whatever Carl is telling them is making Lori's face stony and Daryl, though his expression is impassive and gives nothing away, Rick can see his shoulders are tensed and he keeps looking over Rick's way as though to make sure he's not listening in.

Rick tries not to burn with curiosity but he can't help it. He's too wired to sleep, to try and dream his own dreams, and too tired to be much use to anyone or up for much other conversation. Not that anyone seems particularly interested in speaking with him.

He busies himself tending to Troublemaker with Michonne's help. She says she used to work with horses and Troublemaker takes a liking to her immediately, rubbing his dirty muzzle against her hair and snorting into it whenever he can, making her laugh. He's a gentle giant, playfully flicking his tail at Andre when the boy tugs at it, stance relaxed when Rick leads him over to an open faucet jutting from the bathrooms and attaches the water hose from the RV to it so that they can bathe him.

The wounds that he'd gotten from the farm are superficial as Rick had guessed before, and Rick and Michonne clean him as best they can. "How long have you had him?" Michonne asks after a while, when he's mostly clean and the brown on him is dark with water.

Rick smiles and runs a hand under Troublemaker's wet mane, flicking the water off his hand when he's done. Troublemaker snorts, head low to the ground and grazing absently. "Not long," Rick says. "When this whole thing started, before we met up with everyone at the quarry, before meeting you, I went into Atlanta alone. He was there. I rode him in and when I went back he was there and then he was on the farm when I arrived."

Michonne blinks, eyebrows raised. "Smart boy," she says, petting him affectionately and the horse snorts, shaking out his mane so that he sprays them with water.

"He's saved my life more times than I can count," Rick says.

Michonne hums, petting over the horse's flank again. "Good thing animals don't turn," she says, looking at the scratches, and Rick huffs and runs a hand through his hair.

"Yeah," he says, "that's the last thing we need."

"Rick." Rick turns to see Daryl approaching him. He looks tired, like he hasn't slept in days, and he bites his lower lip and jerks his head to one side. "You got a second?"

"Of course," Rick says, content to leave the horse in Michonne's capable hands. He disconnects the hose and rolls it up and heads back to the RV to put it away. Daryl follows him, antsy and agitated, and then Rick follows him out past the bathrooms and into the trees. They pass Carol and Andrea deep in conversation and Rick offers them both a smile as he passes. Carol smiles back and Andrea glares at him. Rick wonders how long it'll be before she insists on leaving on her own again.

Daryl leads the way until they're far enough in that he's sure they won't be heard, and then he turns around. He's quiet for a moment and Rick's fingers curl, fighting the urge to fidget, desperate to hear whatever Daryl might tell him. The silence stretches on and it feels like an eternity, Rick climbing up this fast cliff to view the truth of what lies on the other side and he's not sure he's ready to hear it but he has to, he _has_ to.

Daryl heaves a breath and runs a hand through his hair, before he lifts his eyes to meet Rick's. "Carl told me…" He shakes his head and turns his face away for a moment, before he sighs. "When you would see War…did he look like Shane?"

Rick blinks, and takes a step back, a hard ball of dread tightening up in his throat. "I…" He takes a breath but it catches halfway through. "Why are you asking me that?"

"Just answer the question."

Rick licks his lips and shakes his head. "I didn't see his face," he says. "I would just see this…regal figure, with a giant sword and a crown on his head. Sometimes when I looked at Shane I would see him wearing a crown or feel like he was holding a sword. But I never saw _War's_ face, not until that night when I told you it was Shane."

Daryl nods. He looks at Rick like his heart is breaking. "I don't think it was Shane, Rick," he confesses quietly. "I don't think it was ever Shane."

"No." The word comes out quietly, no more strength in it than that of a breeze. Rick feels panic, welling up strongly in his chest, anxiety and fear and _anger_ and he raises his hands to his face and they're trembling. He holds his head in his hands and shakes it violently. "No. _No_. I _saw_ him."

"Carl says he's a man…. He says he can see his face. I asked him if he recognized him and he said he didn't. But he would recognize Shane's face. He would _know_."

"No." Tears well up in Rick's eyes and he grits his teeth to fight back a sob. "No, if Shane wasn't War then…Oh _God_." He pulls his hands away from his face and his nails itch to dig into his wrists, scratch at his skin and flesh until he's nothing but bone. There is assuredness in bone, no denying the presence of a man when the skeleton remains. He wants to melt away.

Daryl's hands wrap around his wrists gently and Rick feels the first sob claw its way free of his throat. He falls to his knees and rests his forehead against the back of Daryl's fingers, tears flowing freely as the pain washes through his head and down his spine.

"He _tricked_ me," Rick hisses, his words stuttering and heavy. Anger sweeps through him as heavily as the pain and he understands now why War was laughing – he was laughing at _Rick_. At Rick's foolishness, his indecision, his _weakness._

_Death is so arrogant, so cocky. To pick a mortal to hunt us down._

He raises his face to Daryl and sees Daryl looking back at him, pain for Rick's suffering mirrored there. "Does Carl know?" he asks. "Does Carl know what I did?"

Daryl shakes his head. "I don't think so."

"I have to tell him," Rick says. "I have to…tell him what I did. What I've _done_. Oh _God_ , Daryl, I killed him – I killed Shane and he didn't -. He wasn't -."

"He was a killer," Daryl says. He kneels down in front of Rick, still holding his hands, and rests their foreheads together. "He killed Patricia. Beth saw him do it. He was going to go crazy. We all do, eventually."

"No." Rick shakes his head. "There ain't – I can't explain this away. I was _wrong_. _Fuck_." He thinks of Lori, of her fear and her anger towards him. She must know, now – she must know that Rick was wrong, that he killed Shane and did it because he thought Shane was War and now what is there to prove? How will any of them follow him if he could be so _cold_ as to kill his _best friend_?

A chill sweeps over him and Rick gasps, looking up with wide eyes. Death is there, staring down at him with that familiar grin. He curls his fingers and grabs Daryl's shirt. "Do you see him?" he asks, and Daryl looks up but Rick knows he can't. "Death is – _Death is here_."

_Hello, Rick._

"I can't see him," Daryl says. "What is he saying?"

Rick gasps, his throat swallowing tightly when Death reaches out and touches his tear-stained cheek. "Did you take him?" he asks, and Death cocks his head to one side, and nods. "Was he…? _Please_. Tell me. Is Shane War?"

_Is this the question you want to ask?_

" _Yes_ ," Rick growls. He pushes himself to his feet and Daryl follows, letting him go. He imagines he must look insane now, yelling at the air, but Death is _here_ after such a long absence and Rick feels the anger swelling up in him because Death could have _told_ him he was wrong but he didn't – because maybe he's in Rick's head too, maybe none of this is real.

But then would Carl see it?

Or maybe he's still being tricked. Maybe if he thinks War is out there, he will never finish the job and take his own life. Maybe _Death_ is fooling him now, and wants dominion over all things, and can't afford to lose Rick and so he's _tricking_ him.

"Was Shane War?" he demands.

Death grins at him.

"Rick," Daryl says weakly, reaching out for him. "There's no one there."

Rick blinks and Death is gone and he feels the warmth returning to the air and he gasps, shuddering heavily. "No," he says, and shakes his head. "No. Shane was War. I _saw_ him be War. I _saw_ him and I saw his daughter and I saw a place and it's all _real_ , Daryl."

"Rick…"

" _No_." Rick glares at Daryl and bares his teeth. His hand is itching at his wrist, his right wrist with the band from the facility on it and the way the plastic grates against his flesh and his injured hand aches is grounding. He takes a deep breath and shakes his head vehemently. "No. You're lying to me."

"Why would I lie?" Daryl whispers.

"To keep me alive," Rick replies, shaking his head. "Or maybe to – I don't know, Daryl. I don't _know_ , but I _can't_ -." Rick takes a breath and lets it out harshly. "No. Shane was War. And I'm staying alive because I promised you I would. That's the end of it."

"Rick!"

"And who led me to Pestilence?" Rick demands. " _Shane._ Who led me to Famine? That was just another of War's tricks. I thought he was in Atlanta so I went there, and he thought he could beat me, but he was _wrong_." He turns away, pacing back and forth, running a hand through his hair. "He was wrong and I was right. I have _always_ been right!"

"Rick." Daryl grabs for him, fisting a hand in his hair to get him to stop pacing, and forces Rick to look at him. His eyes are wide, he looks afraid, but calms once Rick stops pacing and muttering to himself. "Rick," he says again, gently, his other hand touching Rick's cheek over the place Death had been.

"Death is tricking us, Daryl," he says quietly. "But I don't care. If I need to stay alive then so be it. Let the world fuckin' _burn_. I'm not leavin' you. I'm not leavin' Carl."

Daryl presses his lips together, his throat moving as he swallows. "I…" He sighs and lets go of Rick, taking a step back. Rick whines, following him and reaching out and Daryl goes still when he feels Rick's hand land on his arm. "I just know what Carl told me. I don't know anythin' for certain."

"Will you follow me?" Rick asks. Daryl looks at him with wide eyes. "Will you stay with me?"

Daryl nods, lips parted, and Rick tugs him close so that he can wrap a hand in his hair and kiss him. His hands are clean now from bathing Troublemaker and though his clothes are bloody, it's dried and old now. Daryl submits to the kiss with a soft, high sound, like he's afraid Rick might hurt him. Rick would never hurt him, he _must_ know that.

"We go North," Rick says when he breaks from the kiss, resting his forehead against Daryl's. "We go North and we leave this ugly mess behind. Will you follow me?"

"Anywhere," Daryl replies, and Rick smiles.

 

 

Rick returns to find Andrea and Dale loading things into the RV. The rest of the camp looks packed up and ready to leave. Rick frowns and approaches, Daryl close behind.

"I'm _leaving_ ," Andrea says, her eyes burning, jaw clenched. "Dale and I are going and you can't stop us."

"You think you'll make it on your own out there?" Rick demands, gesturing back the way they came. "You think _any_ of us can make it on our own?"

"If your crazy ass can do it it can't be that hard," Andrea replies crisply. Dale is behind her and gives a little shake of his head, taking off his hat to rub a hand through his thinning hair.

Rick growls, eyes narrowed. The rest of the group are gathered around him and Andrea and he turns to look at them, one by one. Lori is there with Carl, one hand across his shoulders. She's wide-eyed with fear, no anger on her face, and Rick has to wonder again what kind of things are being said about him behind his back.

"You want to leave, I won't stop you," Rick says quietly, after a moment. His chest and his throat feel cold and he knows that Death is speaking through him, using his voice like a master puppeteer. He imagines there are strings around his throat and his wrists, forcing him to move this way and that as Death idly toys with the other ends. Death had always been a friend but Rick is red with betrayal and anger and cold acceptance.

"Here's something you are _all_ going to understand," he says, looking at each of them again. "Maybe you people are better off without me." He looks at Andrea and Dale and gestures to the RV again. "Go ahead, if you wanna go. I'm going North, and I'm taking my family there. I say there's a place for us, but maybe... maybe it's just another pipe dream. Maybe...I'm just _crazy_."

Glenn lets out a quiet sound and Rick looks at him. His eyes are drawn to Lori again but he can't keep his eyes on her. They fall to Carl who's looking at him, wide-eyed and scared and so _young_ that it hurts. He looks back around the ground and sees Herschel, who gives him a nod. Strengthened, Rick looks back at Andrea. "Go on, then," he says, "there's the door. You can do better? Let's see how far you get."

He stops and no one moves. Andrea is looking at him like he just sprouted a second head and Rick shakes his head and huffs a laugh. No one else is moving, no one seems willing to break from his captive audience. "No takers?" he asks, gesturing out to either side of him. "Fine."

"Rick, you have to understand -."

" _No_ , I don't," Rick says, turning on Dale who spoke. "You wanna go off with the woman who shot and killed one of our own?"

"You're not much better," Lori mutters.

Rick smiles. "You're right. I'm not, but at least I'm man enough to say that y'all don't stand _half_ a chance on there on your own as you do with me. You wanna leave, fuckin' go. We'll head North in the morning. But get one thing straight.... If you're stayin', you're staying. This isn't a democracy anymore."

Andrea presses her lips together, and looks behind her at Dale. Then, she sighs, and shakes her head. "What's North?" she asks.

Rick heaves a breath. "D.C., the Government. If there's a stronghold anywhere, a safe haven anywhere, it'll be there."

"It's so far away," Beth says quietly.

"We can make it," Glenn pipes up. He offers Rick a small, weak smile and Rick nods, hoping his gratitude shows when he looks at the other man. Glenn has been there for him since the beginning, always sticking up for him. Rick hopes desperately that he doesn't have to watch him die.

"When morning comes, we'll move out," Rick says with another nod. "So if anyone wants to leave, now's your chance. If you choose to follow me you're following me 'til the end."

"We understand," Maggie says, her voice soft. She looks determined, like she knows even though Rick is less than reliable, he will protect them until his last breath. If she believes her sister, that Patricia was murdered by Shane and started the fire that burned and ruined their home, then Rick probably seems like the better option by far.

Rick nods, and sighs. "Okay," he says, and then he leaves the circle of the group and walks over to where Troublemaker is grazing. The horse raises his head and snorts at him, ears forward. Rick sighs and brushes his palm against the horse's cheek.

"Will you follow me, too?" he asks the animal. Troublemaker snorts and regards him with his bright blue eye, winking once, and Rick smiles. "Don't blame ya if you don't."

The horse flicks his tail and shakes his mane. Rick looks away and sees Daryl standing next to him. "Quite a speech," he says wryly, and Rick winces.

"A little strong?" he asks.

"I think it was necessary."

"Do you think anyone will leave?"

Daryl shakes his head. "They're too scared."

"They should be scared."

"Are you?"

Rick shakes his head. "I'm too angry to be scared," he says. "I can't be…I can't lead them and be afraid. I can't anymore. Death is determined not to let me die." He shrugs a shoulder. "And I made him promise not to let you die either. I hope you're ready for the rest of your life."

Daryl blinks at him, his eyes wide. "…What?"

Rick turns to look at him. "When Death came to me, in my house, I made him promise that he wouldn't take you."

Daryl frowns, before he takes a breath and looks away. Rick licks his lips and turns towards him, reaching out to touch the bared skin of his neck. Daryl shivers at the touch and looks back towards him. "What's wrong?"

"Nothin'," Daryl says. "Just…kinda freaky that you – even then."

Rick smiles. "I love you," he says, curling his fingers around Daryl's nape. "I promised I would look after you. From the beginning."

"You can't promise me immortality, Rick," Daryl says roughly. "That's…"

"Crazy?"

Daryl huffs. "Yeah. That's fuckin' insane."

"I'm sensing a theme here."

Daryl nods. Rick brushes his thumb over Daryl's steady pulse, before he sighs. "Can we go back to the bathrooms?" he asks. "I like it in there."

"You don't think anyone will go?"

Rick looks over Daryl's shoulder. The group have broken off into little groups around the RV, talking amongst themselves, but it seems like they have unintentionally broken into pieces where some of the people who are willing to stay are paired off with the ones wanting to go. He can see Glenn and Andrea and Maggie in a heated discussion. Michonne, Andre, Carl and Lori are sitting with Carol at the fire pit.

He shakes his head. "No," he says. "I really don't."


	44. Chapter 44

Dawn breaks bright and early the next day and the group gets ready to move out. Although Andrea keeps shooting glares Rick's way whenever she senses him watching her, she and Dale make no more indication that they're going to split off on their own.

They have the RV, two cars, Daryl's motorcycle, and Troublemaker. Rick is glad that no one seems to be leaving if only for the fact that they'd be down another vehicle. When they're all packed he runs a hand through his hair and waits for the group to gather around and regard him, waiting for his order.

"What's our gas situation?" he asks.

Maggie's mouth twists. "Mine's almost out," she says. Glenn says he has half a tank left, but with his car that's worth about a quarter. The RV, too, has a little over half a tank and Daryl says his is full. The motorcycle is easily the most fuel efficient thing so Rick knows Daryl's motorcycle will be the last to run out even if it only had a tank as well.

Daryl seems to sense this and looks at Maggie. "We can siphon some of mine into yours," he says. "Until we find a gas station."

Maggie nods and the two of them pair off so that Daryl can walk his motorcycle over to her car to do the trade. There's a spare empty gas can in Maggie's car that they use to pull from Daryl's motorcycle, and then pour into Maggie's car. By the end of it everyone has a half tank.

"Alright," Rick says, before he looks at Troublemaker. The horse will be their slowing factor, if he decides to follow them. Troublemaker is standing next to the RV, regarding the humans calming, tail swishing absently.

He sighs and Lori looks at him. "We can't take the horse," she says with a shake of her head.

"I know," Rick replies, his heart heavy at the thought. He doesn't want to leave Troublemaker behind, the horse has found him time and again and saved his life on more than one occasion. More than that, though, he feels like the horse is the last link between him and Death. Without his horse Rick is just another foot soldier in the war, whether that war is still waging or not remains to be seen.

He goes over to Troublemaker and the horse whinnies at him, pushing his muzzle into Rick's hand. Rick sighs again and carefully takes the halter off of the animal, tossing it to one side. "You don't have to come with us," he says. "You shouldn’t come with us."

Troublemaker snorts at him, ears forward. Rick looks at him for another moment, long enough for Daryl to join him at his side.

"I don't want to leave him," Rick admits quietly, turning his head to look at Daryl.

Daryl sighs through his nose, reaching out to gently lay his palm against the animal's cheek. "He's a good horse," Daryl says, just as softly. "But even he can't keep up with a car."

Troublemaker snorts at Daryl as though insulted at the statement and Rick smiles. Daryl moves his touch away and Rick raises his hands to cup the horse's face, and rests his forehead just shy of the fringe of main that falls down his face.

"We're going North," he tells the animal. "If you find me again, there will be a place for you."

Troublemaker whickers and blinks at him, and then Rick lets him go and turns away. The horse doesn't follow.

"You can ride with me," Maggie tells Rick. "There's room in the car next to daddy."

Rick nods. Glenn, Lori and Carl are in one car. Dale, Andrea, Michonne and Andre are in the RV with Carol. Beth, Maggie, Herschel and Rick will take the last, and Daryl will ride his motorcycle.

"I'll bring up the rear," Daryl offers, and Rick looks at him and gives a nod of approval. Daryl offers him a small, barely-there smile and Rick remembers what Daryl had told him in the bathrooms. He reaches out and pulls Daryl close to him and kisses him, quickly but in full view of the rest of the group. When they pull away Rick hands Daryl his machete to use as a weapon since he will be the only one directly exposed to any danger.

Daryl's cheeks are pink when he pulls away but he's smiling more widely. Maggie has the map and her car pulls out of the rest stop first, then the RV in the middle, with Glenn driving his Challenger behind and Daryl bringing up the rear as he said he would. In the side mirror Rick sees Troublemaker trot out into the road to watch them go, whinnying loudly. It sounds like a farewell, like a 'Good luck'.

 

 

 

 

They drive past the county line, and then hit the I-85. The roads are thick with cars and the going is slow. Every now and again Daryl will pull up ahead of them and slash at walkers. Further up they'll hit I-95 and then it's a straight shot to D.C. from there.

"Jesus," Maggie mutters when they hit yet another blockade, this one too tightly packed to simply drive through. She stops the car and kills the engine and she and Rick get out, Glenn gets out of his car behind. It's a routine they're familiar with by now, Maggie getting in the cars and wiring them to neutral so that Glenn and Rick can push them off of the road. Daryl helps as well with Carol, parting the cars when they have to and cannot drive around. "At this rate it'll be days before we get to D.C."

"I know," Rick says, trying to hide the worry in his voice. The farther they travel the more insistent the feeling is becoming. He feels like he hasn't slept in a century and he's tired, and while the drive is calming and the work of moving the cars and keeping a watch for danger gives him something to focus on, he can't help letting his mind wander whenever he lets himself relax.

Carl is seeing War and Death. They have come to him – why? Why would he be seeing them? And Rick believes Lori when she says she never talked to him about Rick's visions and his psychosis, which means Carl has no reason to see _those specific things_ unless religious delusions are genetic. Perhaps Death is tired of him, or doesn't think Rick is up to the job now and has chosen another vessel to carry on. Maybe Rick's death is near and Death knows that it won't be right so he must choose someone else to continue the war.

But that doesn't make _sense_. If Shane was War then Rick is finished and if he needs to stay alive for Death to rule the world then he will do it. Not just for Death, but for Carl and Daryl and the rest of the group.

If Shane _wasn't_ War…

"No," Rick mutters to himself, scratching at the back of his neck. His head is bowed and he feels carsick even though Maggie's driving is far from objectionable. He rubs his hands through his hair again and again, trying to calm his breathing and remain in control of himself. Shane was _War_ , he _had_ to be – because if he wasn't, why did Rick see War in him?

Then again, the other horsemen were capable of making him see things that weren't there. Pestilence made him believe he was awake when he was really dreaming. Famine affected him on a base, primal level, and showed his teeth and his huge gaping eyes. Death has never tricked him, never lied to him that Rick knows – but what if it's all in his head? What if _all of this_ is in his head?

What if he's still in his coma and still dreaming, and he never woke up? What if the world ended and he died with it and this is some kind of Hell or Purgatory?

Rick looks up when Herschel puts a hand on his shoulder and he looks over to the man, wide-eyed. He has never felt so young and inexperienced as he does when Herschel regards him, like he's some God from Heaven and watches all that Rick does and judges him for it.

Herschel's eyes are dark and kind when he tilts his head to one side. "What's on your mind, son?" he asks.

Rick licks his lips and his eyes dart forward. Maggie is focused on driving but he can see Beth's head turned, ready to listen. He senses they're both listening avidly to him. The car is quiet except for the rumble of it, nothing on the radio to distract from the silence.

He wants to talk to Herschel, and confess his fears and his doubts, but he doesn’t want to ruin the loyalty and the trust that the girls have put in him. He can't show weakness, he can't show uncertainty. But he is only human, after all, and a mortal. He can't claim to know what lies ahead for them.

He sighs and runs his hands through his hair again, shaking his head. "I'm just…so tired," he says.

"The weight of the world is a heavy one," Herschel says as though in agreement. "You can't carry it alone, and you can't carry it forever."

"I just…used to be so _sure_ ," Rick says. "I woke up from my coma and I was so _sure_ of what needed to be done, even when no one else believed me. My visions came every night and sometimes when I was awake, too, and now…"

"Maybe you're not seeing anything anymore because it's done," Beth offers, turning in her seat to look at him with her big, innocent eyes.

Rick shakes his head. "I don't know, though," he says with a frustrated huff. "The way I understood this, the way things _had_ to go, it doesn't make sense for it to be over now."

"And how was it meant to go?" Herschel asks.

Rick regards him. "You know I killed people," he says, and Herschel nods, his lips pressed tightly together. "When I woke from my coma, I thought if I could find the horsemen before they rose, before the Apocalypse, then it wouldn't happen. So I found three men I thought were the horsemen and I killed them."

He pauses and sighs again. "That's the story Lori knows," he says. "That's the story everyone knows. What they don't know is that I tried to kill myself that night, too. I…took my gun and I had it pressed to my head, ready to go and everything. And I hesitated. I was too _scared,_ to do what needed to be done. I was so _sure_ that I had succeeded and I couldn't pull the trigger. I waited in that last man's house and I kept thinking _Do it, just do it, it'll all be over if you just…_ " He shakes his head and runs his hands through his hair, scratching at the back of his neck. "But I couldn't. They came and arrested me. I didn't fight them. Shane's the one who put the cuffs on me. He read me my rights."

Rick feels something thick gather up in his throat and he swallows hard, lifting his eyes to the roof of the car. He can feel them stinging, tears gathering there, and when he closes his eyes one of them falls down his face.

"The visions didn't stop," he says quietly. "And I got put in the King County facility for the Criminally Insane because I…because I couldn't stop _seeing_ them. I should have just let them kill me. Maybe it would have ended then."

"But they weren't the other horsemen," Beth says. "Were they?"

Rick shrugs. "Maybe they were," he says. "Maybe they were but because I was too much of a fucking _coward_ they had a chance to find new vessels and bring the end of the world anyway and maybe it'll happen all over again because I can't just fucking _end this_."

Herschel moves his hand away, humming in thought. "I don't think that's true," he says, and Rick looks at him. "I spoke with Daryl a few times while you were staying at my home, when your boy was still recovering. He told me he felt things in the presence of the men you killed – unnatural things."

Rick nods. "Famine…made us hungry," he says. "I've been hungry before but never like that. And I looked at him and I _hated_ him. I was afraid of him, like I knew he meant to kill me. And Pestilence…" He shakes his head. "Well, even the least faithful man would have believed when they saw that."

"What was it like?" Beth asks.

Rick looks at her. "Doctor Woodmore was my therapist in the facility," he says. Beth's eyes fall to his wrists and then rise back up. "And he turned. Daryl and I saw it. We put him down, stabbed him in the head. And there was this other resident, James…I saw him turn. I know he died. And there they both were, walking and talking like nothing was wrong. Like they had been reborn."

"And Shane?" Beth presses when Rick falls silent, her voice shaking.

"I don't know," Rick says. "I don't _know_. That's the part that's killing me."

Maggie slows the car with another curse and Rick straightens and looks out of the front of the car to see what she sees. There's another blockade of cars and he sighs, getting out.

"Rick, wait!" Rick turns to see Dale approaching him. "The RV's almost out," he tells Rick. "We can't go more if we don't get more gas, and it needs to cool down. Even with the hose she still gets too hot sometimes."

Rick nods. "We can find a place to rest," he says, "beyond the blockade."

Dale nods and Rick, Daryl, Glenn and Maggie clear the cars so that they can pass. A few miles up there's a rest stop with a gas station, one of the places where everything is just off the highway and leads nowhere else. When they pull into the parking lot they see a few other cars and without being asked Daryl starts going around and inspecting them for gas inside. He and Maggie and Glenn work to siphon all of the gas that they can while Rick and Michonne go to the rest stop proper and peer inside.

Michonne jumps back with a curse when Rick knocks on the door and a walker lunges for them, hissing and snarling and clawing at the walls. She puts a hand to her heart and takes a deep breath and Rick grins at her. "Jumpy?" he asks.

Michonne glares at him and rolls her eyes. "Help me clear it?"

"Yeah, let me get my machete," he says, and goes back to Daryl who hands it to him without a word. Rick smiles and returns to the doors. There are sets of two, a few walkers trapped in the little space between and all crushing themselves against the glass.

Rick takes a step back and sees one of the doors that's cracked, weakened from the rush of walkers. He goes to it, tapping on the glass so that the walkers follow him, and kicks at the door until the cracks grow thinner and more numerous. With the weight of the walkers at the door it gives, suddenly and easily, and they all pour out into the open air.

He and Michonne make quick work of them, stabbing and slicing at their heads before they can get to their feet, before they go inside. The second set of doors are locked and Rick frowns.

"Daryl knows how to pick locks," he says.

Michonne raises an eyebrow and pulls two bobby pins from her headband. "What, like he's special?" she asks, kneeling down, and Rick laughs. He keeps an eye out for any other walkers inside, tapping his machete on the door to draw any that might be lurking inside, out, so that they're not surprised when they walk in.

She opens the door and by that point the rest of the group are ready to go in. Rick leads the way, eyes sharp for any walkers coming at them from behind the food counters or the back rooms. "Help me with this," he says to Glenn, who uses the stacks of shelves in the convenience store to make a little barricade between the group and the rest of the place. There are blankets and clothes and bottle of water that they pilfer and drink from heartily. The food that's gone bad they toss, but there are pretzels and chips and jerky that is still good, it's a veritable feast. Rick wonders why this place hasn't been thoroughly looted yet. Maybe no one got here, through all the cars.

The group pile on the other side of the barricade and settle down for the night. They're still about 300 miles south of D.C. but Rick is pleased with their progress so far. The night creeps in, painting the sky and the windows black. They use a few of the lanterns that are on offer in the store to light their areas. Lori and Carl curl up together in one corner, as far from Rick as possible. Carol is stretched out near them, Michonne on her other side with Andre sleeping soundly between them.

Andrea demands to sleep in the RV and Rick doesn't protest, and Dale goes out with her. Glenn, Maggie, Herschel and Beth take up the spare space near the fridges which leaves Rick and Daryl awake. Rick puts his back to a wall, closest to the barricade, Daryl sitting next to him and watching the group sleep or head that way.

Daryl busies himself with toying with a threading, thin patch of his jeans along his knee. Rick is tired, his head low and his eyes drooping. He wants to lay his head on Daryl's shoulder and go to sleep but he always wants there to be someone keeping watch and he wants Daryl to rest as well.

He sighs and turns his head towards the other man, reaching out to lay a hand over his fidgeting one on Daryl's knee. "You should sleep," he asks. "No one can drive for you."

Daryl huffs. "Not tired," he says.

Rick is about to protest, when he hears a noise. He goes tense and quiet immediately and Daryl does too, having heard it. He looks at Rick with wide eyes and frowns. "We cleared this place, right?" he asks, and Rick nods. They listen for another moment. "Ain't a walker."

"No." Not a walker. No growling or hissing. Which means it could be something much more dangerous. Rick grabs for his machete and they both go absolutely still, holding their breath to listen.

Then, Daryl frowns, and pushes himself to a low crouch. Rick opens his mouth to ask him what he's doing but Daryl puts a finger to his lips to get him to remain quiet. Then, Daryl licks his lips, and lets out a whistle.

Start high, end low. A long one.

_Where are you?_

Rick's eyes widen when, after a breathlessly long pause, a whistle comes back. It's one he doesn't remember Daryl teaching him but Daryl's eyes go wide and he abruptly pushes himself to his feet, squinting over the shelves and into the darkness.

" _Merle?_ " he hisses quietly.

"Daryl?" comes the reply, and Rick gets up to peer into the darkness. "Who's that with ya? That Nutterbutter?"

"Holy shit," Daryl says, and pushes at the nearest shelf until there's space for him to get out and Rick follows him. There are low lights illuminating the rest of the area and Rick sees the hulking shape of a man approaching them. As Merle nears Rick recognizes his familiar grin and eyes. "How the Hell…Is this where you've been all this time?" he demands.

Merle lets out a loud crow of happiness and slams his hand down on Daryl's shoulder before pulling him into a hug. Rick shushes him, unwilling to wake the others, and looks over his shoulder to make sure no one else stirred. No one seems to have heard Merle and for a moment he's irritated at their lack of preservation instinct, but at least it's working in their favor for now.

"Lil bro!" Merle says amiably, grinning in his lopsided and toothy way. "How the Hell've ya been?"

"Merle…" Daryl says weakly, shaking his head. "How did you find us?"

"I'd reckon you found me," Merle says. He puts his weight on one foot and hoists what looks like a giant hammer up so that it's resting on his shoulder, and grins at the pair of them. "Been here 'bout a day, was gettin' ready to move on, when I hear this familiar sweet lil rumble of a motorcycle and I think to myself – 'Merle, is that your pain in the ass lil brother?'. And damn right it was, with his crazy piece of ass and his little lost sheep." He laughs.

Daryl shakes his head again. He looks like he can't decide whether to hug Merle or beat the living shit out of him. "You left," he says. "Didn't think I'd ever see your sorry face again."

"I feel the love," Merle says, beating his free fist against his heart. "Now the question is what the _Hell_ you sorry folks doin' up here?"

"There was a fire," Rick says. "And a herd. Not all of us made it."

Merle looks at him, eyes narrowed. "That right," he says. "Well, that's a shame. I saw who you're rollin' with now. Few familiar faces, some not familiar ones." He waggles his eyebrows. "Got a fine piece o' dark chocolate now. What's her story?"

"Shut up," Daryl growls, and then sighs. "I can't believe you're here."

Merle shrugs one shoulder. "Yeah, well, I figure with the way things were headed, was better if'n I wasn't around. Lotta loose wires in some people," he says with another look Rick's way. "Ain't that right, Nutterbutter?"

Rick blinks at him. "What does that mean?"

"Means Merle's good at smelling bad shit a mile away," Merle replies with a grin. "And that place was startin' ta stink."

"You mean Shane?"

"Didn't say that."

"He killed Patricia. And maybe Otis."

"Who?"

"He killed Ed," Rick says.

Merle smiles at him. It's less wide than before. "Is that so?"

Rick cocks his head to one side. "Don't know who else it could'a been."

"Then it must'a been him," Merle says with a shrug, shifting his weight.

"Right," Rick says slowly. Then, "We're going North. To D.C. You going to join us?"

"Maybe," Merle says with a nod, pushing his lower jaw out and tutting through his teeth. "You know why I should?"

"We gotta stick together," Daryl says. "Safety in numbers."

"Chaos in numbers."

"I don't care if you come or not," Daryl says sharply, and Rick knows he's lying. He wonders if Merle knows it too. "But we're leaving tomorrow. You still got your truck?"

"Think ran outta gas," Merle mutters. "Was tryin' to get more but couldn't find a Goddamn hose in this whole place."

"We have some," Rick says. "We can spare it."

Merle hums. "I'll think about it," he says. "What's North?"

Rick hesitates. "I don't know," he replies with a shake of his head. "Just…a feelin'."

Merle hums. "This the kinda feelin' that brought us Atlanta? And that Hellhole of walkers?" he asks, and Rick nods. "Then no, thank you."

"Merle," Daryl says weakly. "C'mon. You can't stay here."

"I won't," Merle replies. "But I don't trust your boyfriend far as I can throw 'im."

"That's wise," Rick says.

Merle regards him for another moment. "You've changed, Nutterbutter," he says quietly, and Rick nods because with everything else, at least that is one fact that is certain. They've all changed. "I'll think about it. You get some shut-eye and let ol' Merle keep watch."

Then he turns and walks away and Rick huffs. Daryl makes a frustrated sound, running his hands through his hair and kicking idly at a nearby chair. It makes a creaking noise that makes Rick wince.

Daryl looks at him and sighs. "I want to sleep," Rick says, and Daryl nods. "Can we sleep in the bathrooms?"

"What is it with you and bathrooms?" Daryl asks wryly, but he follows Rick as they make their way over to the men's room. "It's like a…oh." Rick looks over his shoulder and Daryl shakes his head. "Nevermind. I get it."

"What?" Rick asks.

"It's like a tomb," Daryl says as they step inside. It's empty and relatively clean, all things considered. They lay down on the floor without blankets and pillows. "That's why you like it."

"Men can die anywhere," Rick says, laying down on his side and putting his head on Daryl's chest so that he can hear his heartbeat. "Tombs aren't special."

Daryl hums, one hand finding Rick's hair and petting through it. "Sleep, Rick," he says, and Rick sighs and closes his eyes.


	45. Chapter 45

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright guys, just a heads up - we're nearing the end of this story. I want to let you know that I actually have three alternate endings on top of the one I'm going to write in the main plot. The ending I'm choosing for this story (there are several chapters left) is actually credited to my dad who helped me scope it out.
> 
> From there, I will be posting the three alternate endings. I guess my question to you guys (something to think about) is whether you'd like them to be additional chapters in this fic, or posted separately as other AO3 entries? The endings take place at different points in the fic so I think it might make reading easier if I were to make separate entries and post the chapter they spring from as the first one there and then continue on with them, but I wanted to kind of get some feedback for ideas for that.
> 
> Like I said, we're getting close to the end, can you believe it? I'm so happy and grateful to everyone who's stuck with the story so far (and hello to all those who waited for it to be done before reading!), and I really hope you guys like all the endings that are in store.
> 
> Enjoy!

Rick wakes when he hears Dale curse, the front doors slamming shut with a clatter of glass and movement from outside the bathrooms. He and Daryl rise and go outside to see Dale shaking his head, at one of the food court tables. Andrea and Glenn are with him, sitting, everyone else standing around.

Dale lifts his head when he sees Rick and Daryl approach. "The RV's shot," he says with another shake of his head. "Can't get her to start. Looks like an oil leak or somethin', can't tell for certain."

"Shit," Rick says, shifting his weight and putting his hands on his hips. Without the RV they're down their biggest payload. "Think any of the other cars will start?"

"We can try," Maggie says with a shrug. "I tested a few of 'em, not much luck."

Rick lets out another curse, running a hand through his hair. "We can try 'em," he says, and Maggie nods and starts towards the doors and Glenn and Beth follow her out to try and figure out if any of the other cars will drive. If they can find even two, that'll be enough to replace the RV even if the gas situation will be spread even more thinly.

Rick does a mental count in his head. Maggie's car can fit five adults, Glenn's can hold three and the two children but it will be a tight fit. Merle's truck can hold two, maybe more if someone is willing to sit in the bed of the truck, and Daryl can ride solo or maybe with one other person. It _might_ work, but it would be better with more cars and if they lose another one, they're screwed.

"How far out are we?" Daryl asks Rick quietly.

"'Bout 300 miles left to go," Rick replies.

"Shit," Daryl says, shaking his head. He must come to the same conclusion Rick does, because he sighs. "Looks like we might be walkin'."

"We can't _walk_ to D.C.," Andrea says coldly, folding her arms across her chest and glaring at them.

"We passed signs for Charlotte a while back," Carol says quietly. "We could turn back and see what's there."

Rick shakes his head. "D.C. was the plan," he says, although he knows he sounds weak. There's no reason to keep going North except his _feeling_. But he also made it perfectly clear that that's where he was going and the group decided to come with him.

 _This isn't a democracy anymore_. He has to be willing to force them onwards, even if it means on foot. Maggie comes back in, shaking her head at Glenn, and squares her jaw when she looks at Rick.

"None of 'em will start," she says, annoyed and defeated, and Rick huffs a similar sound of aggravation, because it would just be their luck that no car in this whole place would start for them. He does another mental count – Glenn, Lori, Carl, Andre and Michonne in Glenn's car. Carol, him, Herschel, Beth and Maggie…Merle and Daryl in his truck if they can get it to start, with the bike on the back. But where would Andrea and Dale go? Maybe if Rick rode with Daryl and Merle had Dale and Andrea, someone would have to sit in the truck bed…

But that would require Merle to come with them and Rick isn't sure that Merle will.

"We can take a car ahead," Lori offers. "See if there's another car we can find further up the road."

Rick looks at her, blinking in shock, surprised that she seems willing to try and keep the goal of D.C. in mind. She meets his gaze steadily, her eyes wide but her lips pressed together in determination.

"I want to go to Charlotte," Andrea says, loudly enough to catch everyone's attention. "That's a big enough city, there might be survivors there."

"You want to go, go," Rick says. "I'm going North. If you're smart you'll know we should all stick together."

"Big words," Andrea replies with a roll of her eyes and Rick stifles an aggravated growl. He turns his face away from her and finds Daryl's eyes. Daryl is shaking his head.

"We don't have enough space," he says quietly. "Or enough gas, I don't think."

"We can try and get as far North as we can," Rick says. "I don't care if we have to walk."

"Of course you don't," Andrea says.

"Look, we can _try_ and make it work," Rick says, rubbing his hand across his face. "Where's Merle?" He looks around the group and doesn't see the other man, and frowns. He remembers saying Merle would keep watch.

"Merle's here?" Glenn asked, wide-eyed.

Daryl nods. "He's been here for about a day," he says. "Rick and I saw him. I'll go see if I can find him," he adds, sending a nod Rick's way before he leaves the main part of the food court, towards the back where they last saw Merle go. Rick can't fight the sinking feeling that Daryl won't find him except for tracks in the woods and skid marks on the road.

Rick sighs and turns his attention to the rest of the group. "While we're waiting, let's grab the bags we have and load everything we can carry. There's a lot of food here, and water. We'll fill up on what we can and take the rest with us."

Dale and Glenn nod, getting to their feet, and the rest of the group disperse as they try and find everything salvageable that will work for food, drink, and bedding and clothing. There are some polo shirts and hoodies on a rack near the door and Rick grabs a few of them, setting them down on a nearby table to be packed because most of them only have the clothes on their backs and the North gets colder than Georgia does.

"Rick." Rick looks up to see Glenn approaching him, setting down a pilfered rucksack full of food that rustles when it rests on the table. Rick gives a small hum, encouraging him to speak. "I just…I wanted to talk to you for a second. You got one?"

Rick nods and straightens up. Glenn casts his eyes around and swallows hard. "I…feel like I need to know _why_ D.C.," he says. "I mean, you know I'll follow ya, you're the only one who seems to have a damn plan around here, but…"

Rick sighs and shakes his head. "You remember Atlanta?" he asks, and Glenn nods. "I just had this feeling, you know? And I…feel the same way right now, about D.C. I feel like that's the answer. I feel like we'll be safe there."

Glenn considers that for a moment, before he nods and licks his lips. "Maggie told me what you said in her car," he says, and Rick sighs because of course she did. "I don't…I'm not gonna pretend to know about all this cosmic plan and shit, but do you think you're feeling that way because maybe War is up North? That he might be in D.C.?"

Rick has considered it, but that wouldn't make sense because _Shane_ was War. Wasn't he? _Yes_. "I'm not going to say that I know for certain," Rick says. "But if he was, that would be one Hell of a plot twist."

Glenn offers a small smile. "Like I said, I'll follow you wherever."

"Rick." Rick turns to see Daryl approaching him, his expression a mask of anger and irritation. Rick knows what he's going to say before he says it; "Merle took off in the middle of the night. Found where he parked his car. One of the gas cans is gone. He fuckin' _left_."

"Shit," Rick says. "Then we don't have enough room."

Daryl nods. "We can try and just walk, find another car up the road, but yeah," he says. "Looks like we're on foot for now."

 

 

They load up everything they can carry on their backs and head out from the rest stop. Rick takes the lead, his machete in hand, Daryl on his right and Carl on his left and the rest of the group trudging along behind. They aren't happy, that much is obvious, but there's no more talk of Charlotte or turning back. They don't take any of the vehicles under the agreement that it wouldn't be practical to try and keep up with even a slowly-moving car, and the sound might draw walkers and leave those on foot exposed.

He is reminded of his vision; _He walks down an abandoned highway, Daryl on his right, Carl on his left. In his hands he holds a long machete, the handle red and dripping with fresh, human blood. Dirt and oil and sweat cling to his skin. Behind him, shadows move, but he can't make himself turn around to see their faces. They are his people, though, his pack, following his lead like sheep to a slaughter, or lemmings off the edge of a cliff. Behind them, farther back, a herd of walkers follows them._

_He can hear them, and feel their breath and smell their stench like they're holding onto his back, claws ripping into his skin. He lets them, breathing deeply as his back burns. His hand aches, too, where it's holding the weapon. He keeps walking._

_Beside him Carl, lets out a sharp breath. His eyes are wide. He's wearing Rick's old Sherriff's hat, the one that Shane always teased him about when he wore it, all the while lifting his eyes to shield them from the sun while Rick could see free and clear._

_"I smell water," he says, and Rick becomes abruptly aware of how thirsty he is. He licks his lips and they crack. He tastes blood. Maybe it's his blood on the machete. Maybe it's not blood at all, but wine. Maybe if he drank it, he would know._

_He looks down at it and licks his lips again. It shines like gems. Daryl reaches out and grabs his arm._

Rick shakes himself of the vision and looks over his shoulder. There are no walkers following them – the ones they do find on the road are quickly put down, and the deeper they go into the hilly countryside the fewer the walkers seem to get around them. It's strange, he thinks, but he supposes they would cluster to the cities and only spread out when food became scarce. He wonders if walkers can starve to death, if one day the last one might just collapse and decay on the road and this whole thing will become little more than a bad dream.

Then again, if anyone who dies, turns, then there won't be an end for a very long time. People will be smarter, and stab their dead in the head when someone passes of natural causes, but it won't be enough for a long, long time.

He looks over his shoulder again and Daryl catches his eye. "Somethin' wrong?" he asks. He's sweating in the sweltering North Carolina heat, his hair a dark plaster against his face and neck. Rick is sure he looks no better, cheeks red and sweat stains running darkly down his sides.

They walk, and they keep walking. Day passes into night, and then day again. They find places to rest where they can but Rick doesn't let them stay anywhere for more than an hour at a time while there's still daylight. The days are getting shorter and light is precious. They don't find enough cars at any one time to hitch a ride.

They pass the sign for the Virginia state line and Rick starts to feel something like anticipation blossoming in his chest.

Four days into their march, Rick rouses the group and is alerted when Lori lets out a sharp cry, grabbing her stomach. He runs to her immediately, kneeling down as her eyes fly open and she gasps, clinging to her stomach and tears in her eyes.

"Rick," she whispers, and reaches out to grab his hand tightly. "Rick, _fuck_."

"What's wrong?" he asks her, pushing a hand against her sweaty forehead to move her hair from her face. Her throat is slicked with sweat and red, her chest heaving. Rick's gut goes tight with anxiety. "The baby?"

"I don't know," Lori says, clenching her eyes tightly shut. She rolls over and dry-heaves, puking up sour-smelling bile.

Rick curses and raises his head. "Herschel!" he calls, and the older man ambles over quickly. There's nothing he can really do, of course, without the proper equipment, but Lori seems to calm a little bit in the presence of the gentle doctor. "Is it…?"

"I don't see any blood," Herschel says with a frown. He kneels next to Lori and then looks up at Rick. "Let's give her some water."

A bottle is thrust into Rick's field of vision from Daryl and he takes it, unscrewing the cap and helping Lori sit up so that she can drink. She's at the point in pregnancy where she's started to show, just a little bit – almost three months along, he would guess, if she only got pregnant after the Apocalypse started. Of course there's no telling if that is the actual case: he's sure she won't tell him. He remembers that she started showing very early when she was pregnant with Carl.

She drinks a few mouthfuls and then gasps and Rick pulls the bottle away before she can choke. " _Fuck_ ," she growls, grabbing at her stomach again. "It – it _hurts_."

"I know, I'm sorry," Rick says, holding her upright with an arm around her shoulders. She closes her eyes and her breathing is shaky and he presses his lips to her sweaty hair, humming softly under his breath. "Just breathe, Lor, c'mon. Ain't gonna let somethin' like a little walkin' hurt the baby, are ya?"

"Fuck you," Lori grits out, and Rick laughs. Herschel is right – she's not bleeding, which is of course the most obvious sign of a miscarriage. Rick doesn’t know what he'd do if Lori lost the baby – a baby is precious in this world now, and it's the last remnants of Shane that any of them will ever have. It's selfish of him to think that way and he knows that, but he can't bring himself to think of anything else.

Death doesn't come to them and Rick thinks that might be a small blessing.

"Here," Daryl says, offering the water bottle again, and Lori takes it with trembling hands and finishes it with another gasp. They're almost out of what they brought from the rest stop and they have yet to find another place that wasn't completely looted.

_Lead us to water, Rick._

Rick's stomach clenches with anxiety as he holds Lori and shushes her through another burst of pain. Carl is kneeling on her other side now, his face white, and he reaches out and grabs her hand.

"Mom?" he asks, his voice small, and she forces a smile.

"I'm okay, baby," she says, squeezing his hand gently. She takes a deep breath and Rick feels some of the tension leaving her shoulders. "I think…I feel better," she says, and Rick breathes a huge sigh of relief.

"We've been going too hard," Andrea says. "We need to rest for longer."

Rick nods. "We'll stay the night here," he says, looking around their makeshift campsite, a little off the road and hidden by the trees. "Glenn, Dale, would you mind checking the lines and tightening them up a bit? We'll need to stay here a little while longer."

He hears them give soft sounds of agreement and split off from the rest of the group. He runs a hand through Lori's hair and offers her a smile when she opens her eyes, glassy from tears and pain, and looks up at him.

"I wish Shane was here," she says weakly, one hand wrapping loosely in the sleeve of his shirt.

Rick sighs and closes his eyes. "Yeah. So do I."

 

 

Carl has terrible dreams that night. Rick wakes up to the sound of him screaming and runs over to see him curled up on the bedding beside Lori. She looks at him with wide, angry eyes as he skids to a kneeling halt and rolls Carl onto his back.

Carl's eyes are moving wildly back and forth, he grabs his head and screams again, high-pitched and loud. Rick winces and gently pulls his hands away, letting out a soothing rumble.

"Carl," he says quietly, shaking him gently and mindful of his still all-too-fresh gunshot wound. If he writhes too much he could tear the stitches and go into shock. "Carl, it's okay. I'm here. Daddy's here. Not gonna let anythin' bad happen to ya."

He can hear the group stirring, roused by the noise as Carl lets out another weak whimper. There are tears on his face.

"No," he murmurs in his sleep, head tossing from side to side. "No, don't! Don't!" He screams again and Rick shakes him a little harder.

"Carl, please, wake up," he whispers urgently.

Lori pets through Carl's hair, humming to him under her breath. It's a lullaby Rick recognizes, one she used to sing to him when he was a baby. Carl goes still, breathing heavily, but seems to calm as he registers the sound. Rick licks his lips when he opens his eyes and recoils from him and into Lori's arms.

"Carl," Rick says quietly, reaching for him, and Carl whimpers and shrinks back against Lori, shaking his head wildly. "Carl, it's just me."

"No," Carl says, shaking his head again and pushing at Rick's hands. "Don't touch me. Don't kill me!"

Rick sits back, eyes wide. Lori regards him for a moment, before she wraps her arms around Carl's slim body and shushes him. "Carl, your daddy would never hurt you," she says, petting his sweat hair back from his face.

Carl whimpers. "It's not him," he cries. His shoulders are starting to shake from sobs, his eyes closing again. Rick isn't sure he's awake, even now. "Can't you see the skull?"

Rick flinches, bringing his hands to his face and almost surprised at the feeling of skin and flesh there. Maybe one day he will wake up all bone and truly become Death. He shudders at the thought and turns his face away as Carl whimpers and sobs against Lori, clinging to her desperately as she tries to soothe and quiet him.

Rick pushes himself to his feet and paces away. Daryl is there, on the pallet he and Rick were sharing, and looks up at him with wide eyes.

"He doesn't recognize me," Rick says, a low growl stuck in his throat.

"He was having a nightmare," Daryl replies, reaching out to smooth a hand across Rick's tense shoulders.

"Why him?" Rick demands, glaring down at his hands as his fingers curl and flex. His wrist aches sharply, protesting all of its recent use, and he thinks he might just have to get used to the pain because it might not heal properly but he damn well isn't going to let that stop him using it. "Why is _he_ having these dreams? Why did it have to go to _him_?"

"I don't know," Daryl says quietly, sounding hurt. Rick turns to look at him and sees the pain etched onto his face, the deep desire to lift this burden from Rick and cast it into the Hellfire where it belongs. Carl starts to quiet and Rick looks up and over at him.

Carl lets out a quiet whimper. "Dad?"

"I'm here," Rick says, scrambling to his feet and rushing back over to his son. He falls to his knees hard enough that the protest the rough treatment on the leaf- and rock-littered floor but he doesn't pay any attention to it when Carl flings himself into Rick's arms, and he hugs him tightly. "I'm right here. It's okay."

"Dad, I -."

"I know," Rick says. "I'm so sorry you're seeing this."

Carl pulls back and shakes his head, wiping his hands across his face to remove the tear marks. "Dad, they spoke to me this time," he says, and Rick's eyes widen and he gasps.

"What did they say?" he asks. "Who spoke to you."

"The red King," Carl says. "We were…we were playing chess. But all the pieces were…were people. You were the black King and I watched him…"

Rick licks his lips, a hard ball of anxiety curling up in his chest when Carl looks over his shoulder to where Lori is leaning up, watching them both with wide eyes.

"He had taken away all the other pieces," Carl says quietly, so only Rick can hear. "I was a red pawn and mom was the red Queen and it was just you and Daryl left for black, he was the knight, but knights don't move right. Daryl couldn't save you." Rick swallows hard, holding both of Carl's hands in his own.

"What did he say?" Rick asks.

Carl looks at him, his blue eyes wide and filled with tears. "He was laughing. And he said…he said…"

"What did he say, Carl? Tell me."

Carl shakes his head. "He said 'You lose'."


	46. Chapter 46

Fire is mesmerizing. The way it dances and flickers is hypnotic, Rick knows he's been staring at the campfire for a good, solid ten minutes at least when Daryl walks up to him. He sits down and Rick registers his presence vaguely, like one might register storm clouds on the horizon. Daryl doesn't say anything. His warmth spreads out against Rick's arm, and Rick's face and hands are already heated from that fire in the way skin feels right before the heat becomes uncomfortable. He's not sure he's going to move, though – he might just let it burn him away, turn him to ash.

He blinks and snaps himself out of watching the way the flames lick and caress the sticks they'd gathered. They'd used a spare map for kindling and Daryl's lighter had set the flame and in the still, humid air it had blossomed and begun to ravish the rest of the fuel there. Fire is passionate, pure heat, raging it its purity.

Rick sighs.

Daryl turns his head to look at him. "You're thinkin' too hard," he says.

"Am I?" Rick asks, wringing his hands together. "I feel like my head's full of fuzz."

Daryl hums. "About what Carl said?"

Rick nods. "He's mocking me," he says, shaking his head. "War is. _You lose_. I lose because…because I was wrong." He closes his eyes and rubs his fingers over them, before cupping his hands over his mouth and opening his eyes once more. "Shane wasn't War."

Daryl nods, silent.

"I killed my best friend," Rick whispers, the words pained around the lump stuck in his throat. "And I was wrong."

_Death doesn't have favorites._

They'd kept moving once Lori felt well enough to walk again. They have traveled the join of 85 to 95, edged their way up through South Carolina, North Carolina, into Virginia. They've passed the signs for Richmond, and Woodbridge, and had started to see signs for the City of Fairfax, and Alexandria, and finally D.C. They're so _close_.

They're nestled in Burke now. There are a cluster of houses, single family homes that were at one point nice, hitting the middle 300's for price where in Georgia that would have been a mansion. The forests here are thick and edge each little cul-de-sac. There are walkers in the road, and abandoned cars. Even if they had traveled up in vehicles to this point, they would have had to carry on on foot simply because the blockades became too numerous and thick. The parkways are jammed, the roads swollen with abandoned vehicles.

This house had a fire pit in the porch attached to the back. They'd lit a fire here but everyone else is inside and asleep. Rick looks up to see the darkened back door. He can vaguely make out the slumbering shapes of his people inside. Behind him, the deck stretches out and there's a staircase that leads to the yard, which backs into the forest. The fence is damaged from where a tree fell during a storm, he assumes. The greenery is lush and thick and creeping up slowly towards the house in thick vines and patches of shrub. Soon it will overtake the whole place, he's sure.

He looks back at the fire and sighs again, running his hands through his hair. "How is everyone?" he asks.

"Comfortable," Daryl replies, sitting back on one of the white chairs in the porch. The people here had been smokers – there are hookah pipes on a plastic shelf with half-full boxes of the stuff, and cigar stubs in a little bowl on the table in the middle of the porch. This section is screened in and the door leading to the rest of the deck is locked with a loose latch. They're hidden away from the main road so they don't seem to be attracting any walkers but Rick knows it's not secure enough to sleep out here.

The amount of people, or lack thereof, had been startling. Rick doesn't know what he expected, but he thinks there should be some kind of sign of life here. Some signs leading to safe havens, or evidence of Government mobility. He sees nothing. Like no one ever lived here.

There had been a young girl, a walker, trapped in an upper room they'd had to clear. Looked like a suicide. Rick doesn't even know if he cares anymore. He's too tired – he's spent, and hollow inside.

He looks up at a rustle from the brush and sees a fox slide through from the trees, out through the car port on the side of the house and out into the road. He shakes his head again. "Daryl, I don't even know what I'm doin' anymore," he confesses, raising his eyes away from the fire to look at the other man.

Daryl nods, biting his lip. He digs a pack of cigarettes out from his jacket pocket and offers it to Rick who shakes his head. Daryl shrugs and takes one out, bringing it to his lips, and lights it quickly before taking a quick inhale. The smoke smells sweet, slightly minty, and Rick breathes in deeply.

"Let's look at what we know," Daryl says. Rick licks his lips, nodding. "We know….that Famine was in Atlanta. You killed him. We know that Pestilence was Woodmore, you killed him too. We _thought_ Shane was War because you saw him, and you killed Shane too."

Rick frowns, but finds himself nodding along. "I have to kill the other horsemen," he says. "Only I can do it."

"Right." Daryl takes another drag of his cigarette, cheeks hollowing as he sucks in the smoke, and blows it out through his nose. "But you were never really _sure_ , right? I mean, Famine and Pestilence were real fuckin' obvious when you saw 'em, and felt 'em." Rick nods. "So I think it's safe to assume that if you ever saw War you would know him immediately – without a doubt."

"Yeah," Rick says. "That's the hope."

"Well, then that's that," Daryl says with a nod, taking another puff. "You had a feelin' we had to come up here, like you had a feelin' about Atlanta. We just gotta keep on keepin' on. We'll find him."

Rick huffs a short laugh, shaking his head. "You have too much faith in me."

"Well someone's gotta," Daryl replies, without hesitation. He looks at Rick over the fire, his eyes dark and glittering in the flames, face half-hidden by the lingering smoke. "Have you had any more dreams?"

Rick shakes his head. "What if I never do again?" he asks. "What if Death never comes to me and helps me?" _What if it's all in my head?_

"Stop," Daryl says, sitting forward. He throws the cigarette, half-smoked, into the fire and Rick watches the flames burn it to a crisp, a cherry of red amidst the orange and black. Daryl gets up and moves so that he's sitting next to Rick on the two-seater rocking bench and Rick sighs as the seat moves with Daryl's weight.

He turns his head and Daryl pets through his hair, pulling him into a loose embrace. The scent of smoke clings to him and Rick can smell it on his breath and his fingertips. He doesn't mind the smell, even though he knows it will turn stale and unpleasant eventually.

"I don't want to think about this anymore," he says, little more than a whine.

Daryl hums, and when Rick sits up he sees Daryl's eyes are on the neighboring house. There's a thin chain-link fence separating their backyards and then steps leading up to a landing that goes to the back door of the house. Daryl's hand tightens around Rick's shoulders before he stands up. "Come with me," he says, holding out his hand, and Rick takes it and lets Daryl lead him away from the fire.

Daryl unhooks the latch and leads Rick down the stairs, and then they go through the car port, and Daryl pushes the gate open into the neighboring backyard. It creaks as they pass, and then closes behind them with a soft 'snick'. They go up the stairs and Daryl knocks at the back door. After a few moments, they deem the place to be empty. He tries the door and it opens with ease.

Rick follows Daryl inside and they try the lights, smiling when the lights come on without trouble. There's a couch in the corner with an old floral pattern, next to a dog bowl though Rick can't see any evidence of the dog still here. Maybe the animal and its owner disappeared when the whole thing first started.

Daryl turns and runs his hands up Rick's arms, cupping his nape and pulling him into a kiss. Rick sighs, opening his mouth when Daryl's tongue slips inside. He tastes of cigarettes and Rick hums, his hands tightening in Daryl's shirt and pulling him close.

Daryl lets out a quiet moan against Rick's mouth, turning him and pushing him until Rick falls back onto the couch and Daryl moves to climb on top of him, his thighs spreading out over Rick's as he finds a comfortable position in Rick's lap and Rick moves his hands to Daryl's ass to hold him upright so he doesn't fall.

Daryl kisses him again, breathless already, and Rick moans quietly as he feels the first threading pulses of arousal hit behind his eyes and trickle down.

He feels the urgency met in the way Daryl touches him, and is reminded of how he felt the first time they fucked in that rest stop bathroom. How he'd never be able to go a day without touching Daryl, and for the most part he's been able to. Daryl is open with affection and doesn't mind when Rick catches him for a kiss or an embrace seemingly out of nowhere. They're both too touch-starved, desperate for it, to hold themselves back whenever they get some time alone.

Daryl touches him and Rick feels his worry melt away. He doesn't think about Carl and his nightmares, he doesn't think about what might await them in D.C. He just feels Daryl, feels his kiss and his hands and the warm weight of him in Rick's lap and he _wants_. Daryl makes him feel alive.

Daryl pulls back with a breathless gasp, his cheeks turning pink in the warm, stale air. "Touch me," he demands, and Rick shifts so that he can hold Daryl close to him with one hand, the other sliding to his stomach and then down so that he can wrap a hand around the erection tenting Daryl's jeans, squeezing gently. Daryl lets out a low groan, tilting his head back.

Rick leans up and kisses up Daryl's neck, finding the bruise he left there days before and opens his mouth wide, sucking another mark there and making Daryl shiver. Daryl's fingers go tight in Rick's hair and Rick moans.

"You gonna fuck me?" Daryl asks breathlessly.

Rick pulls back and looks at him. "You want me to?" he asks.

Daryl nods, biting his lower lip, and Rick smiles. He pushes himself up from the couch and turns them so that Daryl is on his back, laid at an angle across it, his hair splaying out and his thighs spreading to make room for Rick. Rick falls against him, kissing him roughly, and presses one knee against the couch cushions to give Daryl his thigh to grind against.

"You got lube with ya?" Rick asks, knowing that Daryl is always prepared whenever he leads Rick away. Daryl smirks and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small packet of it and Rick laughs and shakes his head. "Fuckin' already ready?"

"When I wanna be," Daryl says with a smile. "I'm a Goddamned Boy Scout."

"That you are," Rick says quietly, kissing Daryl as he takes the lube packet away. Daryl's hands go to his jeans and he pushes them down to his knees and Rick moves back so that he can take them fully off. They don't bother getting completely naked, too close to danger to risk that.

Rick looks up, considering the door, and he gets up and closes it and locks it from the inside, before he takes off his boots and undoes his gun belt, and then his regular belt and jeans. He leaves them in a pile on the floor and returns to Daryl, hands sliding up his thighs and keeping them spread out.

Daryl's eyes are dark and wide, his mouth open when Rick tears open the lube packet and squeezes it out onto his fingers. "Just like this?" he asks, and Daryl licks his lips and nods. "Alright." His free hand rests on Daryl's thigh again, squeezing gently, and he pushes Daryl's legs apart so that he can reach his hole.

Daryl hisses, eyelids fluttering as Rick circles his rim with one finger before pushing inside in one fluid motion. His hips arch up and his cock twitches against his stomach and Rick smiles, pleased to see Daryl so reactive to his touches.

He leans down and Daryl rears up to meet him for a kiss, pulling Rick over his body as Rick twists his finger up to try and find that spot inside of Daryl that he had found before. The angle doesn't feel quite right and his forefinger can't reach deep enough and he lets out a low growl of irritation.

Daryl smirks. "Don't gotta get there too fast," he says, smoothing his hands down Rick's chest. He sighs when Rick rubs the tip of his middle finger against Daryl's hole until Daryl relaxes enough to let him in. " _Fuck_."

"I just wanna make you feel good," Rick replies. Sex is, after all, capable of being an entirely selfish act but Rick has never been a selfish lover. As often as Lori would let him he would spend as long as he could making her orgasm until she was slick and loose and sweaty. He wants Daryl that way as well – he wants it so that when Daryl thinks of him all he remembers is the pleasure Rick gives him at any time he can, of the way Rick touches him and owns him and he wants Daryl to need it just as desperately as he does.

Daryl's cheeks turn a darker pink and he smiles – this shy and adoring thing. "You do," he says and Rick feels the honesty in it. He leans down to kiss Daryl again, letting his thigh go to brush through his sweat-damp hair, breathing in his shaky exhale as Rick twists his fingers up and finally finds that spot inside of Daryl that he'd claimed had felt so good.

Daryl trembles, moaning shakily as Rick touches his prostate, rubbing gentle circles just shy before brushing his fingertips over it. He can feel it getting bigger and harder, eager for his touch, and feels how Daryl clenches around his fingers whenever he brushes against it.

"Gimme another finger," Daryl demands without force, his voice weak as Rick obeys, working in a third finger and stretching him out as much as he can. He lets go of Daryl's hair and instead wraps his hand around Daryl's cock, stroking it slowly to match every little brush against his prostate, so that he can twist his hand at the head of Daryl's cock and make him clench up tight at the same time.

Daryl gasps, eyes closing and head tilted back so Rick can nip and kiss at his throat. His hands rake bluntly down Rick's back, dull through his clothes, and he whimpers. " _Fuck_ , Rick…" The name gets stuck, just behind the tendon in his neck. Rick bites down on it and Daryl lets out his breath in a strangled moan. "Fuck – fuckin' get in me, you asshole."

Rick huffs a laugh, pleased that Daryl is aroused enough to become demanding. He pulls his fingers out and wipes the extra lube on his cock, fisting it tightly so that he can spread the slick as much as possible down his shaft.

"You ready?" he asks, because he still has to ask. Daryl raises his head to look at him, his chest heaving and his bruised throat flexing as he swallows.

He nods, licking his lips. "Yeah," he says, and Rick pushes himself further onto the couch and Daryl turns so that they're laying across it more comfortably. One of Daryl's legs goes onto the back of the couch and he spreads his other thigh out and Rick rests his hand on Daryl's hip, guiding his cock so that the head catches on Daryl's slick hole and he can force his way inside.

Daryl moans, lifting his legs and wrapping them around Rick's waist as Rick covers him, sinking as deeply as he can go in one smooth thrust. He lets out a low, punched-out groan, eyes clenching tightly shut as Daryl's tight ass clenches around him.

" _God_ , Daryl," he growls, finding the other man's mouth and kissing him roughly as he starts to move, too high on the feeling of Daryl to go slow. Daryl moans again, running his hands up Rick's back and through his hair, tugging lightly as Rick fucks him hard enough that the couch creaks.

Daryl's thighs are tight around Rick's hips, heels digging into Rick's back and ass to urge him to fuck Daryl as hard and as deep as he can go. Rick wants to stay like this forever, buried and consumed in Daryl's heat, no thought in his head other than making Daryl feel the same white-hot pleasure that's racing down Rick's spine.

He rests their foreheads together when he's lost too much air to keep kissing Daryl, his hand flying from Daryl's hip to clench in the couch cushions tight enough his knuckles go white. He fucks in again, hips slamming against Daryl's flesh with loud, wet sounds. It's slick, obscene, and Rick has never felt more centered or grounded in his life.

" _Rick_ ," Daryl growls, one hand letting go of Rick's hair to fist his cock tightly. Rick groans, feeling it whenever Daryl touches the sensitive head of his cock and his ass gives an answering clench around Rick's cock. "God, yeah, just like that – _shit_ -."

"You feel so fuckin' good," Rick gasps, his skin slick with sweat as he fucks into Daryl as hard as he can. Daryl whines, baring his teeth and Rick has to kiss him again, feels like he'll die if he doesn't. He wraps a hand around Daryl's neck just to feel his pulse flying against his palm.

"Fuck, yeah," Daryl says, growling low in his throat and arching up against Rick's hand. Rick squeezes just a little more around his neck and feels Daryl shudder. He leans down to nuzzle against Daryl's neck and turns his head to one side to put another mark there. "'M gonna come."

"Yes, _yes_ ," Rick whispers, thrusts becoming more frantic as Daryl's hand tightens on his cock and strokes a little faster. He rears back, flattening his hands on Daryl's hips, and tries to move him so that his cock is rubbing against Daryl's prostate with every thrust.

He knows when he finds it – Daryl lets out this high-pitched, broken sound, needy and light and so fucking hot Rick's heart stutters with how much it affects him. He fucks in again and stops there, grinding his hips up as much as he can so that there's constant pressure there and he feels Daryl trembling hard, his thighs tensing and tightening, and then he arches up suddenly.

He comes with a high groan, spilling hotly over his hand, and Rick moans as well, desperately trying to keep his eyes open to see Daryl as his orgasm sweeps through his body. He thinks it might be his favorite thing to witness, when Daryl's chest heaves up and his stomach sinks in, pretty eyes smudged with black, cheeks red and mouth slack around his breathless whimpers.

"Need a minute?" Rick asks, remembering how sensitive Daryl had been last time.

Daryl shakes his head and reaches up, wrapping his come-slick fingers in Rick's shirt. "Don't you dare," he says, yanking Rick down. "Fuck me. _Now_."

Rick obeys with a moan, pulling back and fucking forward and Daryl hisses, gritting his teeth, but his legs have gone tight around Rick again and Rick can't make himself stop or slow down. He grabs Daryl's shoulders and cradles him close, covering Daryl as he kisses him and uses Daryl's limp body to chase his own orgasm.

"Yeah, Rick, just like that," Daryl whispers, goading him on. He slides a hand through Rick's sweaty hair and submits to another of Rick's rough, bruising kisses. "Fuckin' love how you feel in me, when yer close. Can feel it. Gonna come in me?"

Yes, _yes_. Rick nods, whining softly as he feels Daryl clench up deliberately around him, relaxing for the thrust and getting tight when Rick pulls back and it's too much, it feels too fucking good. Rick's hands go tight and he breaks from the kiss so that he can rest his forehead against Daryl's chest, and he slams in one more time and feels the knot of arousal in his spine unwind and fly out, his orgasm slamming through his body like a gunshot.

He moans brokenly, spilling hot and wet inside of Daryl's ass. The feeling of his own come coating his cock is so incredibly _satisfying_ , knowing he's marked Daryl on the inside and the other man will feel him for hours after, leaking out and staining his thighs. He shivers and his cock twitches, and he doesn't pull out right away, wanting to stay inside of Daryl for as long as he can.

When he recovers he pulls out, groaning at the feeling and eyes going wide when he sees a thin string of white come following his cock before Daryl's ass clenches up again to keep it all in. He sucks in a breath, licking sweat from his upper lip, and runs his hands up Daryl's thighs.

Daryl hums, stretching out and almost purring under the touches, and then Rick leans over him and kisses him again, gently touching Daryl's kiss-bruised neck.

"I love you," Rick murmurs.

Daryl smiles, running a hand through Rick's hair, and leans up for another kiss. "I love you, too," he says, and Rick sucks in a deep breath with how hard it hits him. It's the first time Daryl has outright said the words, and it's as monumental and devastating as a rock slide and yet so _right_ , like a warm embrace or a gentle breeze. It feels like something connecting, finally after so long grinding together at the wrong angle.

Rick doesn't want to make a big deal of it, because it's taken so long to get Daryl to say it, but he thinks Daryl might know anyway. He always knows how his words affect Rick.

"Do you want to sleep here?" Daryl asks.

Rick thinks about it for a moment, before he shakes his head. "Need to stick with the group," he says, and Daryl nods and pushes himself to his feet. Rick makes a soft sound of loss, missing his heat immediately, before he remembers that he doesn't need to hold himself back and he catches Daryl by the shoulder and turns him to claim another kiss.

Daryl smiles when they part, and then grabs his clothes and redresses himself. Rick follows suit and they leave the house together, hand in hand.

The fire is dead by the time they arrive and Rick absently kicks at the logs, sending up a cloud of sparks. He's about to go inside when Daryl goes tense and still and he holds his breath, listening. He hears a car.

He looks at Daryl and frowns. Daryl is already reaching for his knife and Rick grabs his machete from where he left it by the fire, both of them ready as they leave the deck again and prowl to the front of the house.

A car is rumbling down the road and it stops at the neighbor's house, and Rick curses when he realizes that they left the light on. It would have drawn attention. He and Daryl duck down into the bushes and watch as the car slides to a stop and the lights go off. It's a small vehicle, nondescript and a light brownish color. Not a travelling vehicle. Which means there might be a bigger encampment nearby.

The car stops on the side of a road and two men get out. One of them is tall, taller than Rick, with a tight mesh of blond curls and wide, innocent eyes. The second, smaller man is slender and armed with a pistol while the first has no visible weapon.

There are a few walkers on the road and Rick goes tense, hoping that they aren't stupid enough to start firing gunshots. He watches the tall one run up to the house and knock on the door rapidly.

"Hello?" he calls. "Is anyone in there?"

"They're gonna get themselves killed," Daryl hisses. Rick presses his lips together and wonders if saving them is worth the risk of exposing their group to the pair and whoever else they might be loyal to. With the way Rick is feeling he can't afford to make friends with just anyone.

"Aaron," the smaller one hisses, his eyes warily watching the few walkers as they approach. "No one's here. We should just go."

"These lights weren't on before, Eric," the man – Aaron – replies, biting his lip and looking around as though for any other signs of life. "And there are no cars missing, or new ones. _Someone's_ here."

Rick flinches as the light over the carport where he and Daryl are hiding flicks on, and he turns to see the side door opening and Lori peering out. "Rick?" she calls. "That you?"

"Fuck," Daryl says. The walkers are almost on the pair and he grits his teeth. "Cover blown now. Might as well help."

Rick nods in agreement and the two of them emerge from the bushes. "Go back inside, Lori," he says, and she looks at him with wide eyes, her mouth pinched and narrowed when she sees the new bruises on Daryl's neck. He doesn't have time to bother with her judgement. He turns his attention to the road where the walkers are.

Daryl walks up to one and stabs it in the head quickly. The pair of men go back to their car, tensed and watching them with wide eyes as Rick slams his machete into the skull of another. They move past the car where there are more walkers and make quick work of them, putting them down within minutes.

When they're done, Rick looks at Daryl and sighs, wiping his machete on his jeans leg. "We should just ignore them," he says. Daryl smirks at him and they both know there's a fat chance of that happening. Still, Rick moves to walk right back them and back into the house where the rest of the group is. The entire house is lit up now and he can see the silhouettes of his group watching the scene.

"Wait!" Aaron calls, following Rick and Daryl when they make to just walk right past them. "That was…amazing," he says, his eyes wide.

Daryl looks at him with a raised eyebrow, before he nods to Eric's pistol. "Yer gonna wanna invest in a quiet weapon, if you ever need to use one," he says. Eric looks down at his gun and shifts his weight, wincing as though the thought of using the weapon is incredibly unappealing.

"You guys from South?" Aaron asks, and Rick nods. He must have picked up on Daryl's accent.

"Around Atlanta," Rick says. "Goodnight."

"Wait!" Aaron calls again, following them until they're all illuminated by the porch light. Rick and Daryl turn to regard him, forcing a barrier between him and the house. Aaron shifts his weight and rubs his hands down his chest in a nervous gesture. "How many of you are there?"

Rick frowns at him. "Enough," he says.

"You guys used to fightin'?"

Rick cocks his head to one side. Eric hisses out his companion's name as though in warning. "You lookin' for a fight?" he asks.

Aaron licks his lips and looks over at Eric, before he takes a deep breath. "Look, in Alexandria, there's a community. We have walls, power, food. There's enough of us there to keep it goin' forever but we need people who actually know what the Hell they're doing outside the walls. There are people in there who've never even seen one of the…the…"

"Walkers?" Daryl asks, and Aaron nods, his eyes wide.

"Eric and I try and find people," he says, gesturing to the other man. Eric looks uncomfortable and anxious and Rick can understand why – he's sure a man who doesn't look like he's ever held a gun in his life might be put off by the sight of two men emerging from the darkness and slaying a bunch of undead without breaking a sweat. "If you came all the way from Atlanta, you must be good at survivin'. We need people like you."

"You don't want people like us," Rick says with a shake of his head.

Daryl nods, but then he says; "You guys got a doctor?"

Aaron nods rapidly.

Rick looks at Daryl and cocks his head to one side. "For Lori," he says, and Rick nods as well. Lori will need a doctor eventually. And they have children. It wouldn't be fair to keep them on the road. Daryl looks back at Aaron and Eric. "Where is this place you got?"

"It's about a twenty minute drive," Aaron says with a smile. He raises his hands to show he doesn't have any weapons, before he reaches into the messenger bag slung across his shoulder. Rick's hand tightens on his machete but he doesn't move as Aaron pulls out what looks like a thick stack of pictures. "Here, I have these…to show you, if you wanna see."

Rick licks his lips, but walks forward and takes them and holds them up to the light, trusting that Daryl would react if either Aaron or Eric made a bad move. He sees pictures of homes just like the ones they're in now, and green grass and children playing. There's a church, and a town hall. There are thick, high walls reaching up almost double the height of a man, they look like they're made of sheet metal, and strong. He hands them to Daryl to inspect.

"No walkers inside?" Rick asks, and Aaron shakes his head. They have children. Lori's pregnant and needs a place to rest before she can't move any farther.

Rick licks his lips and sighs. "You don't want people like us around," he says. "I can promise you that now."

"Well…" Aaron shifts his weight, his eyes darting to one side and Rick's eyes narrow. "There's a reason we need fighters in particular."

"Oh?"

"There's another group," Aaron says. "They're more like a cult, really. Eric and I have run into the tail-end of them a couple times. We have trade arrangements with a few other places and we've heard talk of trouble from all of them about these guys. Time might come when they come knockin' on our door and we need to be ready."

"So you need soldiers," Daryl says, handing the pictures back.

Aaron shakes his head. "Not just soldiers," he says. "You'd be part of the community, you'd be one of us. It's just…none of us are fighters. Half of us don't even know how to use a damn gun."

"This is Virginia, ain't it?" Daryl asks, frowning.

"City folk," Rick says with a shake of his head. He runs a hand over his face. "I'm going to talk it over with my group," he says. "The house next door is empty. If you want us, you can sleep there and we'll tell you our decision in the morning."

"We shouldn't stay out too late," Eric says weakly. "It's dangerous."

Rick smirks. "Don't worry," he says, hefting his machete. "We'll keep you safe."


	47. Chapter 47

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's a little slow, I wanted to give you guys a breather before the final shit goes down. Happy Tuesday!

"I thought you said this wasn't a democracy anymore."

Rick sighs, running a hand through his hair and doing his best to ignore Andrea's grating tone. "It's not," he says, "but I owe it to you guys to give you the option. They have people, and food, and power. I want to get everyone's opinion before I agree to anything."

"They mentioned other groups," Daryl adds. "Communities up here they trade with. There are survivors."

"And they have a doctor," Rick says, looking at Lori. "Probably medical supplies, too."

Lori nods, her lips pressed tightly together. She seems unable to look away from the marks on Daryl's neck, but hasn't said anything about it so far.

"Look," Rick says, shaking his head and shifting his weight. He's in the living room of the house, the group gathered around him and sitting on the couches and chairs available. There's a mid-rise of stone for the fireplace and Michonne and Andre and Carl are sat on it, Andre fiddling idly with one of the toy airplanes they'd found in the basement. These people had had kids, or at least entertained young ones at some point. He tries not to the think of the girl they found on the upper landing and why she might have been left behind.

"You all followed me this far," Rick says. "And if we keep moving, you can keep followin' me, but there's a chance that these people can take care of whoever wants to be with them. They aren't fighters, they told me so. If we joined them, that's what we would be. We'd be the survivors, the ones they sent outside the walls more often, most likely."

"What about this other group?" Herschel asks. "You said they mentioned there's a cult, or some such thing."

Daryl nods. "Yeah, apparently there's this group causin' trouble for the rest of 'em," he says. "They haven't hit Alexandria yet but they're worried they might. If they do come, we'd be expected to fight for 'em."

"We should look after our own," Andrea says curtly, folding her arms across her chest. "We don't know these people. _They_ might be the bad guys, for all we know."

"It's a possibility," Rick says. "That's why I brought this choice to you guys. I…" He sighs and looks away for a moment, pressing his lips together, before he turns back to regard the group. "I came up here 'cause I had a feelin' we needed to be here. Maybe it's to join Alexandria, maybe it's to keep headin' into D.C. proper. I don't know yet. But it might be a safe haven for anyone who doesn't want to keep comin' with me, if I gotta go on."

"I'd like to speak to these men," Herschel says quietly. "You said they were next door?"

Rick nods. "I can go get them."

"Please do," Herschel says, and Rick nods again and heads for the front door. Daryl follows close behind. They exit the house and Rick can hear low murmurs of conversation and debate start up behind their backs as they leave.

Daryl sighs. "You think this is a good idea?"

Rick licks his lips. "I don't know," he replies honestly. "But I'm starting to think there's no such thing as coincidence anymore."

They walk up to the front door of the neighboring house and Rick knocks on it. After a moment it opens, revealing Eric. His eyes widen when he sees them.

"My group wants to talk to you guys," he says. Eric presses his lips together and looks over his shoulder and Rick can see Aaron's shadow approaching. "We won't hurt you."

Aaron offers a shy smile. "I believe you," he says, and Rick has to think that that's incredibly naïve of him, especially if his story about the bad group is true. There's no promise that Rick and his group aren't loyal to them either, whoever they are.

Still, Rick nods and he and Daryl go back down the stairs and after a moment Aaron and Eric follow them. Eric stays tight to Aaron's side, following just a step behind and on his right and Rick smiles, thinking of how Daryl walks with him.

They go back into the house and Rick leads them to the living room. "Aaron, Eric, everyone," he says with a small wave of his hand. "Show 'em the pictures."

Aaron nods and reaches into his bag, pulling out his stack of photographs. He splits them and hands them out to the group, half to Michonne and half to Beth, and they hold them and look them over slowly. Michonne's fingers linger on the pictures of the church and the walls, as though she had forgotten that such things might exist anymore.

It feels like years that they've been out here, wandering. Rick remembers the time lapse that he had been gone when facing Pestilence and wonders how long they've been really travelling for. Maybe it has been weeks, months, instead of just days. Maybe a decade has passed since he woke up from his coma with his brand new vision of the world.

"Our group is in Alexandria," Aaron says when a few of the group have their share of the photos to peruse. "Our leader's a couple, Reg and Deanna. Reg built the walls when the first reports came in. We have no sickness, none of the disease. There are people in there that have never seen a…walker, you called them?"

Rick nods.

"Sounds like an Eden," Herschel says quietly, looking at the photos that Beth hands him before passing them to Maggie on his other side.

Aaron smiles.

"And you've both been there? Since the beginning?"

Aaron nods, and bites his lip and reaches out to take Eric's hand. "I knew Deanna from before and joined her as soon as the walls went up. Eric and I have been there the whole time."

"Why do you go outside?"

"To find more people," Aaron says. "Other survivors like you guys."

"What are these other communities?" Andrea asks, looking up from the photo of children playing in the street that Rick had first seen.

Aaron nods. "There's Hilltop. They holed up in a building a few miles from here, a historic sight. It's a small place and they farm, mostly. No fighters there. Then there's the Kingdom. Secretive bunch. Only met a few of them at any one time. Then there's…the other group."

Rick frowns. Something flickers in his head and he feels the room go cold. His head snaps up and he sees Death sitting next to the fireplace, his hand resting lightly on the grating that sits there to protect stray sparks from launching into the main room. He shivers and shifts his weight and Daryl looks at him, expression tight with worry.

Rick shakes his head.

"This other group you expect us to fight," Maggie says, jaw clenched.

"Only if it comes to that," Aaron replies, shifting his weight. He runs a hand through his hair and holds it tight against the back of his neck. "I'm not promising it'll never happen, but they've left us alone for the most part. There's a lot of them, all fighters, all soldiers. They have the Kingdom and Hilltop under their heel because they don't have enough weapons there."

"We don't have weapons."

"We do. Just don't have enough people who know how to use 'em."

"If we go," Andrea says, her eyes on Rick, "do we have to stay? Can we leave if we don't want to be there?"

Aaron blinks at her. "Of course," he says. "Anyone is welcome. That means leaving too."

Rick can't tear his eyes away from Death's grinning face. He hears Carl take in a sharp breath and looks to see that his son is staring at Death as well, eyes wide and afraid. He's pressed tight to Lori's side, seeking comfort from her, and Lori is holding him but doesn't seem to understand why he's afraid.

Carl looks at him with wide, terrified eyes. " _Dad_."

"I know," Rick says quietly. "I see him, too." He looks at Aaron. "You don't want people like us."

"You don't want people like _Rick_ ," Andrea says. "There's a difference."

Rick glares at her, but he can't deny the truth. There's nothing inherently wrong with the rest of the group. Still, they're meant to present a united front and comments like that will get them nowhere.

"What's wrong with Rick?" Eric asks, speaking for the first time. When Rick looks towards them he sees Aaron and Eric regarding him with wide eyes.

"Rick's gotten us this far," Daryl says with a disapproving look sent Andrea's way. "Some people'd do well to remember that."

"Rick's our leader. Where he goes, I go," Glenn adds with a nod. Rick presses his lips together and shakes his head.

"Full disclosure," Rick says, holding up a hand to stay any more input from his group. His wristband catches in the light and he can see Aaron and Eric look at it. "I was in a mental institution when this all started. A lot of stuff…affects me weird, still.

"He's a fucking nutjob is what he is," Andrea says coldly.

There's silence for a long while, before Aaron says; "But you still followed him." He looks over at Rick. "And you got them here. That's something. I've never seen someone fight like you and Daryl did last night. And, I mean…even if you do wanna come, you have to go through Deanna. She gets final say on who joins and who doesn't."

"There's no hard feelings if she doesn't want me there," Rick says with a smile. "Wouldn't be the first time."

"So you'll come?" Aaron asks, smiling.

Rick looks around the group. Most of them are nodding, looking excited at the prospect of shelter and food. Hunger has been gnawing at his own stomach for days, he and Daryl hardly eat in an effort to save the rations for the people who need them more.

Death fades away and warmth returns to the room. Carl still looks terrified.

"I guess so," Rick finally says, licking his lips. "It'll take us a while to walk there."

"I can call for a bus," Aaron offers. "We have a few to spare."

"Okay." Aaron nods and he and Eric leave the living room and step into the kitchen landing to make the call. Rick sighs and sits down on the floor, rubbing his hands through his hair.

"Carl," he says, and looks up when the boy disentangles himself from Lori and goes over to him. He pulls Carl down into a hug, letting Carl sit in his lap and cling to him tightly. "It's okay," he says, petting through his hair. "I won't let him hurt you."

"It was him," Carl whispers. "The man in black."

"I know. Do you know who he is?"

Carl nods.

"I don't want you talking to him like that," Lori says, her voice wavering. Rick looks up to meet her wide eyes. She's petting nervously across her distended stomach, tendons in her neck flexing when she swallows. "You'll put ideas in his head."

"They're already there," Rick replies, trying to sound as calm as he can.

"They're on their way," Aaron says as he and Eric come back into the living room. Aaron's smile is bright, his eyes glowing with excitement. "I can't wait for you all to meet everyone. We haven't had new folks for a while."

"Great, we'll be a Goddamn novelty," Daryl says gruffly.

Aaron laughs. "When we get in, Deanna will want you to meet her. She likes to interview people, get an idea of how they might fit into the community. I think you'll all be very happy there."

Rick nods, pressing his lips together, and tries not to think about how solid the walls had looked, and how Death had grinned at him so widely, like he was pleased with Rick's progress. He feels anxious, his chest heavy with anticipation. Something feels right about Alexandria, something feels very final about it all. Maybe this is the end he's been looking for. Maybe here, everyone will be content enough to let him slip away and disappear.

 

 

 

The bus is a standard school bus, streaked with mud but uncharacteristically lacking any blood spatter. It's driven by a man no older than Glenn who Aaron introduces as Spencer, Deanna's son. Rick sits up front with him while the rest of the group crowd inside with what little possessions they own.

Spencer is quiet, but Aaron fills the bus ride with chatter about Alexandria, about its history and the various people within it. He tells Lori about their doctor and about the last group that joined them; a ragtag group of military that had been heading to D.C. with a scientist who claimed to have a cure. Of course, there's nothing left of D.C. to go to, but the trio would not be dissuaded. They left a week ago and no one has heard from them since.

"So there's nothing in D.C.?"

Aaron shakes his head. "Government sealed the place off and bombed what was inside. We think they might have been doing tests in there on the walkers, or something. But I guess it went wrong. We haven't seen any survivors except you guys and the other communities since."

Rick looks up as the bus turns a corner and he spies the walls. On the side of the entrance is a sign claiming the innards to be the Alexandria Safe Zone. _All are welcome_. He can hear birds singing, and the high shrieks of children coming from inside as the gate slides open on wheels and the bus rumbles in.

It comes to a stop and Spencer stands. "I'll tell my mom you're here," he says with a nod towards Rick, and then he leaves. Aaron and Eric take point and the rest of the group pour out. By the time everyone is off the bus, they've gathered a veritable host of curious people. Rick feels his neck prickle, it's like they're some zoo exhibit or something.

They must look a sight, caked in blood and sweat and everyone carrying a weapon. Everyone looks so _suburban._ One man is even wearing a pair of khakis, for Christ's sake.

Carl is trembling when they step out of the bus. He looks sick. "I don't like it here," he says weakly, clutching Lori's hand. "Mom, I don't like it here."

"Rick."

Rick looks up to see the crowd parting, revealing a tall man with silver hair and a shorter woman with deep smile lines and kind eyes. Aaron leads them over and stands at a triangle point between them and gestures. "Rick, this is Deanna and Reg. This is Rick. He led his group here from Atlanta."

"That's a long hike," Reg says lightly. "You must be very tired."

"Did you meet any other survivors?" Deanna asks.

Rick shakes his head. "Just what you see here," he says.

"That's a shame," Deanna says. "But you are welcome here. I'd like to get to know all of you, but of course I understand you must be very hungry and very tired. Let me show you where you can stay for now. We'll have a dinner later to welcome you to Alexandria."

"But first, we must ask that you leave your weapons here," Reg says, nodding to Rick's machete. "We have an armory where they'll be kept, and of course if you decide to leave they will be returned to you. We don't like to have weapons scattered around the place. I'm sure you understand."

Rick frowns, looking back at the rest of the group and biting his lower lip in consideration. None of them look too happy with the idea. Finally, Rick sighs, realizing that this must happen if anything else is to be agreed on, and hands his machete over to Aaron.

Aaron takes it, his fingertips gripping the bloody handle as though he would rather be touching anything else. Spencer comes back with another man and they take the rest of the group's weapons and make a pile and carry them off. Daryl hands his crossbow over to Aaron reluctantly, shoulders tense.

"Excellent!" Deanna says brightly. "This way."

Deanna leads them down the street and Rick takes in everything. The houses are pristine and new, gleaming white with their impeccable siding and new roofs. It must have been a new building area before everything went to Hell.

Deanna catches him watching and smiles. "Reg was an urban planner," she offers. "He knew about this place and thought it would be perfect as a community for survivors. He built everything."

"It's impressive," Rick says with a nod. At least he can't deny that.

"You'll be staying down here," Deanna says when they come to a crossroads and gestures down the side alley. Rick looks down and freezes. It's a normal street, just like the one they just walked down, but a cold shudder runs down his spine as he gazes at it. He blinks, and the houses are dark with ash. There are bodies on the ground, dozens of them all in a neat line. The windows are shattered.

A man in black and a little girl stand at the end of it. The man has red around his neck, a familiar stain on it, and a sword in his hand. He has an arm around the little girl and he grins at Rick, gesturing for him to come forward.

He blinks again and the scene fades away, leaving him shaking and breathless. Daryl is at his side instantly, one hand on his arm to ground him, and Rick trembles that much harder. He _knows_ – he's meant to be here. War wants him here. Which means he shouldn't be here at all.

"We have two spare houses here so you can spread out," Deanna says, oblivious to Rick's sudden state. She smiles at them. "I'll let you get settled in. Welcome to Alexandria."

She walks away and Daryl comes into Rick's field of vision. Rick shakes his head, wiping his sweaty hair from his face. "This is it," he tells Daryl, looking at him with wide eyes. "This is where I saw Shane as War. This is where he tricked me."

Daryl's eyes widen. "Do you think he's here?"

Rick shakes his head. The place itself doesn't feel oppressive and sickly like Atlanta or the facility had. Whoever War is, he's not here. But he's close. Rick shudders again and licks his lips, before he straightens and turns to the group.

"I guess these houses are ours," he says, gesturing to the nearest two.

Carol looks between them, her lips pressed together. "They're trying to separate us," she says, and Rick nods in agreement.

"There's enough room for all of us in one," he says.

"Screw that," Andrea says, grabbing Dale's arm and leading him to the second house.

Rick shakes his head, but turns and goes into the first one. The inside is clean and well-lit, tastefully and comfortably furnished. It looked like something straight out of a magazine. It probably is.

"I call first shower," Michonne says.

"I got next," Lori adds, carrying the bag of spare clothes they'd pilfered from the rest stop and heading upstairs with Michonne. Carol, Andre, Maggie and Beth follow behind, leaving Daryl, Rick and Glenn with Herschel in the main room.

"What do you think?" Glenn asks after a moment of silence.

"Looks as advertised," Daryl says steadily, shrugging. "Don't like that they took our weapons."

"It's a peaceful community," Herschel says, sitting down on the couch with a groan and wiping a hand through his beard. "Often when one brings weapons, one invites danger to follow."

"They want us for a war," Rick says. "I don't think us being here will change that."

"Is that so?"

"I don't know." Rick looks away and rubs a hand over his face. "I want to go explore. Do you think they'll let me?"

"Escorted, maybe," Daryl says. "Probably have to get the all clear from Deanna before we can wander around unaccompanied."

Rick nods. "I'm gonna go look around the house, then," he says. "See where we can hide some shit once we get access to the armory."

Herschel makes a sad sound, shaking his head. "Rick," he says tiredly. "One of these days you're going to have to stop thinking like a hunted man."

"I'll be sure to let you know when I do," Rick says. He looks at Daryl. "Alone?" he asks, and Daryl smiles and nods, and follows Rick as they leave the main room to explore the rest of the house.


	48. Chapter 48

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I swear to God I thought Deanna's husband's name was Rich. Oh well! Changed it to Reg now so it works out.

Rick doesn't know what he expected to find. The house is just a house, a big one similar to an Altanta suburb mansion. It's very close in size to his own home back in King County, but more open-plan so that natural light hits more places. There are three bedrooms and a sizable dining room, two comfortable living areas and a basement that lacks any furnishing. He decides that he will sleep down in the basement. It's cold and lined with cement and reminds him of the rest stop bathrooms. There's a door that leads to the garden so he doesn't fear being trapped in it. Daryl seems to understand this, agreeing with a nod that this is where they'll be sleeping.

Aaron and Eric come by later with towels and toiletries so that everyone can get cleaned up, and as much clothes as they seem able to spare. There's enough for everyone and Rick wants to know where they got them from but he doesn't ask because he supposes it doesn't matter. Soon everyone is clean and fresh, like the last few months haven't touched them at all.

It's…strange. Rick doesn't like it. His skin prickles with uncertainty and tension. Everything feels to alive here, too tame. Too peaceful. This is a utopia but utopias by their very definition don't exist and he's waiting for the shoe to drop, the curtain to be dragged back revealing the person pulling all of the strings.

Deanna comes by when it's close to sundown and Rick lets her into the house. The entire group is there except for Andrea and Dale, sitting in the living room when Rick leads Deanna that way.

She regards them with a raised eyebrow. "You don't need to be so cramped," she says lightly.

"We like sticking together," Carol says with a bright smile. She looks ridiculous in her lavender sweater and her tan pants and sneakers. Rick doesn't think she looks human anymore.

Deanna nods, pressing her lips together. "I imagine you all have been through some terrible hardships," she says. "When you're ready, I'd like to invite you to my home. I have a study there where I like to conduct interviews for new arrivals and see how everyone is going to fit."

"That sounds reasonable," Carol says, and Rick nods even though he desperately doesn't want to go. He agrees because he has to.

Deanna's study is warm and welcoming, tan shelves with thick books lining the back wall and a comfortable-looking cream chair and a black couch. Her windows face the walls, stretching high as their strong defenses. There's a chess game on the table in front of him, and a camera sitting just by Deanna's shoulder.

"Do you mind if I film this?" she asks.

"What?" Rick asks, too enthralled with looking at the walls. They end sharply, points of metal sticking up like a battle station. Rick turns away and looks at her.

"Do you mind if I film this?"

"Go ahead," Rick says. "Why?"

"We're about transparency here," Deanna says, and then nods to the chair. "Please. Sit."

Rick does, his eyes falling to the chess game as Deanna stands and turns the camera on, and then sits back down. "Do you play?" she asks, seeing Rick looking.

Rick presses his lips together and shakes his head. "Tried to teach Carl for a while, but I was never very good at it myself," he replies.

"We can play while we talk, if you'd like."

Rick shakes his head again. "No, thank you."

Deanna regards him, her smile gentle but her eyes sharp. "I was a Congressperson," she says. "Ohio. Fifteenth district. You?"

Rick wonders how he's even supposed to answer that question. "I don't think it matters," he says.

"Oh, I think it does."

Rick looks down, biting his lip, and scratches as his beard. He hadn't shaved even though there had been a razor with the toiletries offered to them. "How did you get here?" he asks.

"My family were trying to leave D.C., to help my district with the crisis," Deanna replies. She folds one leg over her knee and puts her hands there. "The army stopped us on a back road and directed us here. This was a planned community – solar, sewage filtration, supplies. It had everything. The army was meant to come after, but they didn't."

"And the walls?" Rick asks.

"My husband built them. There was a shopping mall being built nearby and he built the walls himself. More people came, helped us. We became a community. Who _he_ was mattered quite a bit, when all was said and done. So, it matters."

Rick looks down and huffs a strained laugh. "You've been…behind these walls…this entire time?"

"We need people who have _lived_ outside the walls," Deanna says, leaning forward. "People like you, like your group."

"You don't want people like us," Rick says.

"Why?" Deanna asks, her voice heavy.

Rick doesn't like this. It feels like his interviews with Doctor Woodmore. Like the man saw more than Rick ever could. Rick knows now that Woodmore was always watching him, Pestilence's beady, fly-like eyes on his every move and keeping him contained and sedated. His skin is prickling.

"It's all about survival now," Rick says lowly. "People out there…they measure you by what they can take from you. They want to _use_ you, to survive. You should keep your gates closed."

"Are you saying I shouldn't take your group in?" Deanna asks. "Are you already trying to protect this place?" She presses her lips together as though fighting the urge to smile and Rick drops his gaze. "Aaron says I can trust you."

"Aaron's naïve. He doesn't know me. I've _killed_ people," Rick says, shaking his head. "I've lost count of how many. And I killed them so that my family, my people, can survive. So that _I_ can survive for them."

"Sounds like it's a good thing to be a part of your family," Deanna says, and Rick stands and goes back to the window. "I've done things too, Rick. I've exiled people from here, and that's as good as killing them."

Rick shakes his head. "You didn't put the bullet in their heads," Rick says.

"Rick, Northern Virginia was essentially evacuated. You're the first sizable group we've seen in…I can't remember how long." Rick turns to see Deanna standing next to him, looking up at him. "I'm _exceptionally_ good at reading people, Rick."

"What do you _want_ from us?" Rick demands.

"Those families out there deserve to raise their children in a safe environment. Your son, the baby that Lori is carrying, Michonne's son… They deserve to grow up safe and happy. I believe you can help us do that. You and your group can help us _survive_."

"Aaron told us about this other group," Rick says. "These people who are hurting the other communities up here. You think it'll come to a fight?"

"Is that what you want?"

Rick shakes his head. "I don't want to keep fighting," he says. "But I think that way of life is lost to me now."

"Rick…" Deanna looks down at her watch. "I know you're skeptical. You have a right to be. But now it's time to decide. If you're the one doing the deciding."

Rick looks back up at her and frowns, pressing his lips together. His eyes draw back to the chess game and he feels a cold shiver running down his spine. _This ain't a democracy anymore_. "I…was a Sherriff," he says.

Deanna smiles. "Yeah, I figured it was something like that."

"My group don't like that you took our weapons away."

"It's the way we are, here."

"I want my gun back," Rick says. "And Daryl gets his crossbow. That's non-negotiable."

Deanna regards him for a long moment, before she nods. "Okay," she says, and Rick blinks at her because he didn't expect her to agree. He nods and she smiles again. "Welcome to Alexandria, Rick."

 

 

 

The days pass swiftly in Alexandria and Rick hates it here. These people are so naïve, and stupid, and they don't understand what it's like out there. Rick remembers interviewing undercover cops before, big guys from the city who'd followed their marks out to King County and got arrested on something small but something that they needed to be arrested for nonetheless. Rick has never had to deal with big crime, the biggest thing he and Shane did was bust a drug ring in their district. There's nothing like that here.

Those men had been fidgety, nervous, the whites of their eyes constantly showing. P.T.S.D., Rick would have called in. He feels like there's danger around every corner, like every shriek of a child is a cry of fear or for help. In the first few days he runs himself ragged trying to chase down the source and finding a happy pair of children playing, or a man and his wife caught in a playful game of chase.

"I hate it here," Daryl says. He resists showering for days and keeps to himself and as a result he's become this weird, wild animal for tourists, trapped in a cage on the side of the road as he cleans his crossbow on the porch or makes more arrows. He and Rick are the only ones who get weapons. Michonne steals her katana from the armory and leaves it in the house. Rick sees her smuggling it in and smiles.

Aaron has a motorcycle he'd scavenged on a run and he shows it to Daryl when he finds out that Daryl used to have one.

"I know," Rick says, running a hand through his hair. He'd finally gotten up the nerve to shave. He's been avoiding mirrors as much as he can, afraid of what he might see there. He'd done it quickly, his eyes down as he worked the electric razor over his skin and shed the beard. He feels like he's lost weight, something lifted off of his shoulders. "So do I."

"Then why are we still here?" Daryl asks, looking over to him. They're both sitting on the porch of the first house, on the steps and gazing out as people walk by them. A few give nervous waves and smiles. Most of them ignore the pair outright.

Rick sighs. "Because I don't know where to go yet."

Daryl nods, giving an aggravated huff. He stretches his leg out to tuck underneath Rick's and Rick lets him, smiling down at his hands at the flush of affection that that simple act brings. It's the late afternoon, the sun is starting its descent and hidden behind the houses but not turning the sky different colors yet.

"How was your interview with Deanna?" Daryl asks. He hasn't asked it yet but Rick knows he was burning with curiosity. After all, Deanna had welcomed them after only speaking with Rick, though she'd talked with all of the adults as well. Daryl had been one of the last.

Rick shakes his head. "She had a game of chess in her office," he says.

Daryl nods. "I played a game with her."

"You know how to play?"

Daryl smirks. "Had a lot of time to kill on weekends," he says. "And Eddie liked to play sometimes."

"Did you win?"

"No," Daryl says with a laugh. "She kicked my ass."

Rick smiles. "I told her she didn't want people like us in this place," Rick says, lifting his eyes to meet Daryl's. "I told her I killed people. And she said…I remember, she said 'If you're the one doin' the decidin'…'. But I don't think I am. I think no matter what I had said, she would have let us in. They're desperate for people like us. I think they know this cult is going to come to them eventually."

Daryl nods, pressing his lips together. "She asked me a lot about you," he murmurs, and Rick blinks at him. "And I told her that I'd follow you anywhere. And that's still true. You say the word and I'll leave this place. You just gotta tell me when."

Rick thinks he might hear something like a plea in that. Daryl wants to leave. He frowns. "Do you feel it too?" he asks, rolling his shoulders. "The…tension here?"

"I just know that I don't like it here," Daryl replies with a shrug, picking up his crossbow again and setting it on his lap. "Neither does Carl. He's still havin' nightmares."

"I haven't had a single dream since…since he woke up," Rick says with a helpless sound, rubbing his hands over his face. His bare skin feels weird, he wants to drag his fingers down his flesh until it shreds under his hands and reveals bone. He needs to become Death once more, he's not sure he'll ever feel right again until he does. "It's killing me. War is…messing with me."

"Have you seen him again?"

Rick shakes his head.

"You will," Daryl says, leaning forward and putting his hand on Rick's shoulder. Rick turns his head and Daryl kisses him chastely. "Just try to relax. You'll see him again."

 

 

Rick wakes to the sound of a loud, piercing whinny. He jolts upright and Daryl looks at him, startled out of sleep.

Rick sucks in a breath, his eyes wide. "Did you hear that?" he asks, gripping the man's thigh tightly. Daryl frowns, but then the sound comes again and his eyes get wide. Rick can hear the sound of something striking metal.

"Yeah, I hear it," he says, and they both rush to their feet and run outside. Neither of them can manage sleeping in anything other than fully clothed right now. Everything feels too on edge to do that. They run up the stairs and out of the front door and towards the gates.

"What's happening?" Rick asks. Aaron, Spencer and a few others are standing outside the gates. Rick turns his head to see Maggie on the wall, looking down, and her eyes widen.

"Holy shit," she says. Another clang hits the gate and she makes a gesture to Rick. "Open it! It's the horse!"

Rick's eyes widen and he runs forward, and Aaron joins him as they pull the gate open and Rick gasps when he sees a horse barrel through, covered in blood and mud and slicked with sweat. The animal's eyes are wide and wild and it runs to the middle of the courtyard, rearing up and kicking at the air. Its hooves are a mess of barbed wire, stuck up its legs like it got caught in a fence. Rick recognizes him immediately.

"The fuck…?" he hears Spencer whisper, but then he walks over to the horse and raises a hand.

"Hey, now! Hey, shh…" It's Troublemaker, Rick would recognize his mismatched eyes and the bite on his flank anywhere. Troublemaker snorts, prancing in place like it hurts to rest his feet, and tosses his head wildly in Rick's direction. "Hey there, it's alright. You recognize me?"

The horse quiets, nostrils flared and bloody. There's blood on his muzzle and teeth and hooves like he's been fighting all this way as well. Rick doesn't believe what he's seeing. There's another high-pitched neigh and Rick turns to see another horse trotting through and his brain stutters to a halt.

The horse is pure black, the only smear on it being around its hooves and lower legs like it had trekked through mud to follow Troublemaker. It walks in calmly, much more calmly than Troublemaker had been, and the gate rolls closed behind it. It's a mare, smaller than Troublemaker, with dark eyes and brown around her muzzle and her forehead.

"Daryl," he says weakly, nodding to the second horse. "Do you see her?"

"Yeah," Daryl breathes. The mare cocks her ears forward and snorts, long tail swishing lazily at the flies buzzing around her flanks. Rick breathes out a sigh that's something like relief. "I see her."

Troublemaker snorts, and Rick jumps as the horse rears up again, before settling back down with another quiet nicker. He pushes his muzzle against Rick's chest and Rick reaches up to pet him absently, running his nails down the blood on the animal's cheek.

"You…you followed me all the way up here?" he asks the animal.

"And got himself a girlfriend," Daryl says with a small smirk. He looks at the other horse and approaches her slowly. She seems much more calm than Troublemaker had and turns her head to put her muzzle in Daryl's hand, snorting into it quietly, tail still swishing. "I think she's pregnant," Daryl says, running a hand down her shoulder and over her distended stomach. Rick has to agree – he knows some horse breeds are naturally more round but she looks heavier in a different kind of way, out of place with her slim legs and regal neck.

"Holy shit, that's Buttons!" Aaron says with wide eyes. "The kids saw him – well, I guess _her_ – running around outside a few weeks ago. Been trying to catch her ever since."

Rick nods, licking his lips as he looks back to Troublemaker. "This horse…this horse followed me from Atlanta," he says.

"Was he yours?" Spencer asks.

Rick shakes his head. "No, but we traveled together for a while," he says, his voice low with awe. "I told him if he made it, he'd be welcomed here."

Buttons gives a soft whicker, her ears forward and relaxed. Daryl shakes his head in something like wonder. "This is fuckin' crazy," he says.

"Do we have room for horses?" Rick asks Aaron.

"The Kingdom use horseback pretty much exclusively," Aaron says. "There's a place we've been using as storage but it could easily become a barn. Could probably get some riding gear and brushes from them." He shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair. "That's crazy, that he – what's his name?"

"Troublemaker," Rick says with an affectionate smile as Troublemaker snorts, ears forward at the sound of his name. He looks noticeably calmer and is breathing like a sigh, like he's relieved to have found Rick. Rick holds his face and rests their foreheads together, closing his eyes. "We need to get you cleaned up."

"We can hose 'em off towards the back of the complex," Aaron says. "Anyone got a rope to lead them?"

"We won't need one," Rick says, and Troublemaker snorts as though in agreement. "He's a smart boy. He'll follow me."

 

 

 

The children are delighted at the introduction of Buttons and Troublemaker to the group. Deanna smirks when she hears the story of Troublemaker and Rick's history.

"You're like a real-life cowboy, Rick," she says, and Rick smiles, sad when he remembers T-Dog and how he'd called him the same thing.

"Troublemaker is very dear to me," he replies. "I'm glad he found me again."

"Seems like a smart horse," Deanna says with a nod. "Very calm. I'm sure they both will be content here."

 

 

 

The chess board stretches out through all eternity. There are fires at the edges so that Rick can't escape. He feels the weight of a crown on his head and a cloak draped across his shoulders. When he looks down he sees himself holding a black sword, and his cloak is darker than the void of Death's eyes.

He looks up as Death takes a seat behind him. There are other pieces spread out alongside him. Carol sits on his right as a bishop, Lori to his left as the Queen. Glenn is the second bishop, Daryl on his left as the knight. In front of him, Carl is a pawn, coated in black.

War sits on the other side of the chessboard. Rick knows it's War. He can't see the red pieces, they're too far away.

Death reaches out, his bony fingers wrapping around another pawn, and pushes it forward one space so that Lori's front is exposed and Glenn is free to move in the second phase.

War laughs, his voice booming out along the vast expanse of the board. "Shy?" he asks, and then Rick hears the low, grating sound of a different piece moving. "You've always played too cautiously, my friend. That's why you lose every time."

 _Every time a piece falls, that is a victory for me,_ Death replies. _I find this game tiresome._

"And yet you keep agreeing to play."

Death grabs Daryl and lifts him over the row of pawns, placing him in the rook-side end of the 'L'. When Daryl's piece is set back down it clicks like the clattering of old bones. War's moves feel like canonfire.

They keep playing. The other black knight falls first, too reckless. He's a big man that Rick doesn't recognize, dressed in military gear. He looks like a general. War swipes the piece as he's felled by one of War's castles. Then, his castle falls, taken by a black one who looks like a slim woman with a thick ponytail and a scar on her face.

The pawns drop one by one – War's first, because he doesn't care about them. Rick doesn't recognize any of them as they drop, dealt with swiftly by Daryl or Glenn or Carol. Lori remains by Rick's side and Rick isn't moved at all.

Then, Death grabs for Carl. Rick wants to move, to scream 'No' and tell Death to reconsider. He wants to trust Death as well, because Death can see the board and knows more about the battle than Rick does, but this is his _son_. Death had promised that he wouldn't take his son.

He moves Carl, two places from his starting point, straight into the thick of it. War doesn't kill Carl, either considering him unimportant or reserving the kill for a later date in the game. War has his King out in the middle of the field and Rick can see him – he's the tall man, his crown a golden color and his sword out and ready to slay. Rick's is clasped tightly to his chest as he hasn't had the chance to use it yet. His weapon isn't a sword, but a scythe.

The King is the slowest and most vulnerable piece, the Queen the most powerful. Death doesn't seem inclined to use either of them. He lets War take the battlefield, inching towards them, while Carl weaves his way through the folds, always just in the right place to avoid being taken. Rick feels his gut go tense with fear when Death grabs Lori and moves her to take one of War's bishops.

Rick starts to cry when Glenn dies, killed by the red Queen, who falls to Carol quickly after. War doesn't have his Queen anymore. A red pawn is slowly inching its way up across the board towards Rick and Rick feels his spine getting colder, tense with anticipation and fear.

Lori falls, swarmed by the remaining red castle and Rick lets out a yell but his cries are silent because he's only a piece in this game. He can't speak, can't fight for himself. He's little better than a pawn and yet Death won't _move_ him.

The red pawn reaches the end of the track, taking the spot where Daryl had been. Rick can't see Daryl anymore, he's lost to the thick of red's armies. He hasn't died, though – Death would tell him if Daryl died.

War lets out a crow of victory and the red pawn melts to a red Queen and Rick's eyes go wide because the red Queen looks like Lori. She's standing in line with him to check him. Death sighs and moves Rick out of the way. His touch is cold and hollow and Rick whimpers.

"At least you're learning," War says. Then he moves his knight closer to Rick, cutting off his other means of escape. He sees Death bring Daryl back, closer to him. Carol dies next.

_He had taken away all the other pieces. I was a red pawn and mom was the red Queen and it was just you and Daryl left for black, he was the knight, but knights don't move right. Daryl couldn't save you._

_We're going to lose,_ Rick thinks. He can't see Carl anymore. Another pawn starts to advance towards Rick and Rick sees that it looks like his son – not the real Carl, but some fake mockery of him. He's grinning, his eyes white and fixed on Rick intently.

Rick starts to shake and grabs his scythe, waiting to raise it in defense.  War contents himself with wiping the rest of the black pieces from the board and each one feels like a booming 21-gun salute.

 _You're going to win,_ Death says mildly. _Good thing this isn't real life._

"Don't be so sure," War replies, and slides Lori close to Rick so that he's checked again. Death pushes him up so he's two spaces away from Carl. Death moves Carl closer so that Rick can't attack him but he can't move any other way than back into Lori's space.

Death sighs and moves Daryl, but knights don't move right. _Knights don't move right_.

War chuckles, and marches forward with the red King. It's a man with thick hair and a short beard, and when Rick goes closer he sees that it isn't a sword he's carrying at all, but a different kind of weapon. It looks like a baseball bat wrapped in barbed wire.

"Hi there, Rick!" the red King says, waving at him as though he's an old friend. "Nice to finally meet you. I've heard _so_ much about you."

 _You're a fool,_ Death tells War mildly, moving Daryl closer again. He can't block any of the other pieces but he could kill Carl if Carl moved any closer. Rick tightens his grip on his scythe, he wants to call out to Daryl to stop, but he can't make his voice work and he doesn't want Carl to die either.

War moves the King close to Lori and the King reaches out to touch her, and she turns and smiles at him. "You might want to look away, sweetheart," the King tells her, and she giggles and covers her eyes, and then War moves Carl so that he puts Rick in a checkmate. Rick can't attack him because if he did he would be right next to the red King.

War laughs and reaches out. Rick flinches and tries to lift his hands to stop the attack, but he can't as War puts a finger on top of his head and knocks the crown off, sending him to his knees with a cry of pain.

"You lose. Again. Better luck next time."

 

 

 

Rick wakes up soaked in sweat, a hoarse cry of fear stuck in his throat. He reaches blindly for Daryl but Daryl isn't there, and he scrambles to his feet and races outside, heart hammering and blood pounding.

He gets out into the street to see Daryl running for him, his eyes wide. He looks scared out of his mind. "Rick," he starts.

"Carl and Lori," Rick says, grabbing Daryl's arms. "Where are they?"

"Was just gonna tell ya. They're _gone_. Aaron took them on a run to the Kingdom and they haven't come back. They were meant to be back hours ago."

"He has them," Rick says, gritting his teeth. Why in the _Hell_ did Lori go? Why did he take Carl with her? "War has them. I saw it."

Daryl's eyes go wide. "Fuck," he says. "You're sure?"

" _Yes_ ," Rick replies, and then he lets Daryl go and shakes his head. "I need – I need my machete. And bullets for my gun. It's empty. Oh God, Daryl, _War has them_. They went _red_."

"We'll get some," Daryl says, and grabs Rick's hand. "Come on."


	49. Chapter 49

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay everyone! I was recently cast in a production of 'Godspell' and they had surprise rehearsals yesterday so I didn't get a chance to write. My posting schedule may change a little because it looks like a lot of rehearsals are on Tuesdays but I'm going to do my best to stick to this until the whole thing plays out! Not long now!
> 
> I'd like to add a note that a lot of this narrative - the justifications for it - have to be added after the fact because it's from Rick's POV so unfortunately we only know what he knows. This might come across as some things not making sense but I promise I have a plan! All will be revealed!

"Three blind mice…"

The chessboard stretches out over all eternity. He's standing in the wake of the war. To his side he sees Lori with her head still in her hands, her smile wide behind her wrists as she parts her fingers to peek through. He can see Carl, his white eyes shining. The two Kings are facing each other, toe to toe, the red King with his sword raised as though to strike the black King – Rick – down, and Rick's scythe is clutched tightly to his chest as though in defense.

He can't see Death – the real Death. But he can hear War's voice as he continues to sing.

"Three blind mice. See how they run!"

Rick looks up when the shadow of a massive hand casts itself over his body. He yells and kneels down, covering his head in defense, and then the hand picks him up and holds him high over the chessboard. From here he can see the other pieces – Glenn, or what's left of him, scattered across three different squares. Carol in a neat pile, her head by her knee. The general-looking man with his skull caved in. The woman impaled by several bolts from Daryl's crossbow.

Rick frowns. She, like Lori and Carl, had started the game black but then turned red. What does it _mean_?

"See how they run…"

Rick looks up, his eyes widening when he's confronted with the giant, smiling face of a man. He looks like the red King, and Rick knows that this man is War. Has always been War. When Rick sees his face, he will know him for who and what he is.

He grins at Rick, his smile stretching wide like the Cheshire cat. The crown on his head shines brilliantly like a fallen star, so brightly that Rick can hardly bear to look at him directly, but must shield his eyes and bow his head. It's a deferential pose and he thinks it might be on purpose.

"You know the rest of that rhyme, Rick?" War asks, and Rick flinches when the hand moves, jostling him and sending him to his knees. He grabs onto the meat of the thumb as tightly as he can and glares up at War, earning another laugh from the giant. War moves his hand again like he's trying to manipulate a spider. "C'mon, sing it for me."

"Fuck you," Rick grits out.

"You know how terrifying it must have been for those mice?" War asks, and he sets Rick down. Rick slides back onto the board and looks up with wide eyes, because War can simply crush him where he stands under his giant hand. "I mean, c'mon, you can't see, first of all. You run towards what you _hope_ is home, and suddenly outta nowhere, bam!" The hand comes down in the shape of a fist, crashing against the chessboard. All the remaining pieces topple over and Rick falls to his knees again. He's breathing hard and trembling. "Some bitch picks you up and cuts off your tail. Doesn't even kill ya. Just 'snip', and you're missin' a piece of ya. Sorry sons of bitches."

Rick licks his lips and tries to think. If he runs, War would catch him. If he stands, he's an open target for everything else. Nothing moves on the chessboard, like he's standing in a graveyard. Then, he hears a whistle.

Start high, end low.

_Where are you?_

Rick can't see where it's coming from. War laughs. "I have your mice, Rick," he says, and Rick presses his lips together, his hands are shaking and clench tight by his side. "You comin' to save them?"

"I don't trust anything you say," Rick says. "But I'm comin' to kill ya either way."

War laughs.

"Rick! Rick?"

Rick shakes himself to awareness, breathing heavily, his forehead slick with cold sweat. He wipes the back of his hand across it and his eyes dart around him. He's in a room he hasn't been in before and the walls are lined with weapons – he recognizes some of them as those of his people. Daryl's standing next to a box of ammo and there's a heavy-set woman with dark-rimmed glasses and black hair pulled back in a tight ponytail regarding him warily.

"Rick," Daryl whispers, reaching out to touch his arm and Rick flinches. "Where did you go?"

Rick shakes his head. He doesn't remember this woman's name. Daryl's eyes narrow and he looks over at her. "I'll make sure you know what we take," he says, and she nods frantically as though it would give her no end of joy to leave them alone in the room. She hands Daryl a college-ruled notebook and leaves the room, closing the door shut behind her.

"Did you whistle for me?" Rick asks, and Daryl nods. "You shouldn't have done that. War heard it."

"Do you think it'll matter?"

"I don't know," Rick says, blowing out a harsh breath. He can't stop his hands from shaking. "Fuck, Daryl, he has them – told me so himself. He _has them_."

Daryl reaches out again and this time Rick doesn't flinch, and he puts a hand to Rick's sweaty forehead and then runs it through his hair. "You need to calm down," he says, and Rick nods but he's at a loss of how to do that. "C'mon, talk to me. We need ammo. We need guns. What else do we need?"

Rick tries to think. "Uh, a car," he says, licking his lips. "Some way to get out and back. I don't know if we'll find them."

"Do you want to bring anyone else?"

Rick shakes his head. "I think it's best we go in alone," he says, before he winces. "I think…it's not fair, Daryl. It wouldn't be fair to bring anyone else." _And War will kill them. Glenn, Carol, Michonne, anyone we bring._ "He's going to kill us the first chance he gets."

"We'll be ready," Daryl says. "You said you saw him?"

Rick nods.

"So you know what he looks like."

Rick nods again.

"That's good." Daryl grabs the box of ammo from the shelf and hands it to Rick. "Find some bullets. I'm gonna keep lookin' around," he says, and Rick nods and places the box back on the shelf, rifling through it for whatever his gun will take. He finds a box of loose rounds and pockets it and then lifts his head as the door opens.

Deanna steps in, her lips pressed together tightly as she gives Rick and Daryl a once-over. "Olivia asked me to come," she says, and Rick nods, remembering that the woman's name was Olivia. "What's going on?"

Rick looks over at Daryl and clears his throat. "Lori and Carl left with Aaron this morning," he says. Deanna frowns. "They should be back by now."

"Aaron's here," Deanna says. "He came back a little while ago."

Rick blinks at her. " _What_?"

"And Lori and Carl didn't leave with him."

Rick's fingers go white on the edges of the box of ammo, a cold shudder of fear and anxiety lynching his heart. "Have you seen them?" he asks. "Has anyone seen them?"

"I'm sure they're around, Rick. It might not look it but this is a big place."

"No," Daryl says. "I searched all over before I came to you," he adds, looking to Rick. "They're _not_ here."

"Who told you they left?" Rick asks.

"Glenn," Daryl replies. "He heard Lori say that she would go with Aaron and take Carl to the Kingdom."

Rick nods. "We need to talk to Glenn, then," he says.

"You can't just take out all these weapons," Deanna says, putting her arm out to block the exit. "I'm sorry, Rick, but I can't have you two wandering around with loaded guns and armed to the teeth. You're going to make people nervous."

"To _Hell_ with that," Rick snarls. "My son is missing. You don't understand!"

"And with that attitude, I won't," Deanna says calmly. She has no fear of Rick – either she knows he won't hurt her or she believes that Daryl would stop him doing so. Rick doesn't want to hurt her, but she's standing in the way of letting him do his Goddamn _job_ and _Carl and Lori are missing._ "Return the ammo and the extra guns. Go talk to Glenn. _Then_ we can talk about you looting our armory."

Her eyes move up and down Rick one more time and she shakes her head. "You look like a mess," she says. "You look wild."

"You have no idea," Rick says. "I told you, you shouldn't have let us in. But we're here now."

"And _you're_ here now," Deanna says, "which means you do things _our_ way."

"Rick," Daryl says, reaching out to him. "Let's just go talk to Glenn first. He's waiting for us. He won't hurt 'em."

Rick huffs and reaches into his pockets, pulling out the boxes of ammo and returning them to the shelf. Daryl manages a weak smile and Deanna nods, before she drops her arm and lets them pass out of the armory. Olivia is standing at the entrance, her hands nervously fidgeting with the front of her shirt. Daryl hands her the notebook back with a nod of thanks.

As soon as Rick steps out, the sunlight breaches his skin and weighs heavily on his back as though the gold in War's crown has coated it and it sits like a weight on his shoulders. He rolls them, trying to breathe, but he can't. There are people in the road but he pays them no mind. He puts his fingers in his mouth and whistles loudly – three short, high whistles.

_Danger._

The people on the road stop to stare at him with wide eyes and he sees Carol emerge from a nearby house, understanding the summons and alerted by the whistles. Rick goes over to her, Daryl at his heels. "Where's Glenn?" he demands.

"At the wall," Carol replies. "What's going on?"

"Lori and Carl are missing," Daryl explains as Rick turns and strides towards the wall. The Alexandrians part for him like the Red Sea. Aaron and Glenn are at the wall and he can see Glenn scrambling down the metal ladder, having heard his whistle. They both run up to him.

"What's going on?" Glenn asks, his eyes wide.

"Lori told you she was going with Aaron to the Kingdom?" Rick asks. Aaron appears at Glenn's side and Glenn nods and Rick turns his eyes to Aaron. "Did you take Lori and Carl to the Kingdom?"

Aaron shakes his head. "She never said two words to me," he says.

"That's what she told me," Glenn adds. "Loudly. Repeatedly."

Rick lets out a low curse, running a hand through his hair. "Of course she did," he says, looking at Daryl. "No one would think to look for her until Aaron came back."

Daryl blinks. "You think she went off on her own?" he asks hesitantly. "By herself with a kid?"

"I wouldn't put it past her," Rick bites out.

"Andrea and Dale left this morning," Glenn adds. "They took a car, the windows were dark so I couldn't see from where I was on the wall. They wanted to leave. They wanted to be away from here. I didn't think to stop them."

Rick grits his teeth and bites back another low snarl of anger. Of course, it isn't Glenn's fault. It's no secret that Andrea has wanted to part from the group for a long time. Rick had imagined that with the promise of walls and food and a place where Rick wasn't in charge that she would stay. He's not sad that she's gone, but she might have taken Lori and Carl as well and _that_ will not stand.

She'd _promised._ She'd promised that she wouldn't take Carl away from him.

"Son of a _bitch_ ," Rick growls, running a hand through his hair again.

"Where might they have gone?" Glenn murmurs.

"I gave them directions to Hilltop," Aaron says, biting his lower lip. When Rick looks at him he ducks his head and Rick flinches, reminded strongly of how he'd had to look at War. Aaron is _afraid_ of him. He takes a step back, away from the gathering. "It's Savior hunting ground. I told them that."

"They never made it to Hilltop," Rick says. "How do we get there?"

"I can draw you a map," Aaron offers, and Rick nods. He turns away just as Deanna approaches them. "We think they might have gone to Hilltop. I need to go and make sure they're okay."

Deanna shakes her head. "I can't authorize that," she says. "We can't spare the vehicles or the manpower to go after them."

"Daryl and I will go," Rick says. "On our own."

"I'm sorry, Rick, I simply can't allow it."

She turns and walks away and Rick growls a curse under his breath, his hand clenching the grip of his pistol so tightly that his wrist aches. His arm feels cold – it would be so easy to lift his gun and fire a shot into Deanna's back, take control of this place. His people are fighters, and survivors. Alexandria would fall to them like a house of cards.

Daryl touches his arm, just above his wrist, and Rick looks at him. Daryl's eyes are wide. "Don't," he whispers, his voice shaking just a little. He's afraid, because Rick would. He _could_.

He forces his hand away from his gun and turns to look at Aaron. "Did you manage to get saddles and tack from the Kingdom?" he asks, and Aaron nods. "Good. We'll take the horses." Daryl licks his lips and nods, understanding that the decision hasn't been made so much as pre-destined. It's a funny coincidence, Rick thinks, that they were given a second horse just in time to need her.

Of course, Rick doesn't believe in coincidence anymore. He sends a silent thanks to Death and follows Aaron and Daryl towards the repurposed barn. Troublemaker greets him with a soft whinny – he's been cleaned up, the barbed wire removed from his legs, and shines in the sunlight next to the black mare. She regards them with calm eyes, tail swishing once, and puts her muzzle into Daryl's hand.

"Do you know how to ride?" Rick asks.

Daryl nods. "A little," he replies.

"That's good enough for me," Rick says. "We'll go back to the armory, take what we can. We ride as soon as possible, before Deanna can stop us."

They put saddles and bridles on Troublemaker and Buttons. Troublemaker snorts, ears going back as he takes the bit, and Rick hides a smile in the horse's mane. "I know," he says, petting the animal's flank once. "It's just for a little while."

By the time the horses are ready Rick's group has gathered at the barn, watching with wide eyes. "What do you think you're doing?" Maggie demands, glaring at the two of them as Rick leads them over to the fence to mount the horses.

"War has Lori and Carl," Rick says. "I'm sure of it."

Herschel sighs, shaking his head. "Rick…"

"Look, I know you guys don't believe me," Rick says, regarding them with a sigh. "You might never, and that's okay. But I'm…I'm _sure_. I had a feeling we had to be here, and now Lori and Carl are gone…Daryl and I have to go find them."

"If they're at Hilltop, we'll just turn around and come back," Daryl says, playing the peacekeeper as he always has. "We just gotta know they're safe. It's dangerous out there."

"We should come with you," Glenn says, and Rick flinches when a vision hits him – Glenn, on his knees,  blood running down his face and split in three pieces. They won't have time to bury anyone.

"We should stay here," Maggie says, folding her arms across her chest. " _All_ of us. If this place has dealings with Hilltop then we'll know if they're there."

"And how long until we find out they aren't?" Rick demands. "They're _not there_ , Maggie. I can feel it." He shakes his head. "We're wasting time."

"If you go, they might not let you back in," Glenn says quietly.

Rick manages a weak smile. "Well, that's something to look forward to, then."

"Rick -."

"Look, Daryl and I are _going_ ," Rick says. "We're going and we're going alone. I led you here, I led you to a safe place. You trusted me this far."

"That was dumb luck," Carol says. "We wouldn't have gotten here without Aaron finding us."

Rick shakes his head. "I don't want to be here," he says, whisper-quiet, but it feels like he's shouting. "Daryl and I don't belong here. You can argue with me all you want, but that fact ain't gonna change. I'm…I'm not safe to be around."

"And you're just going to go?" Maggie demands, looking at Daryl. "You're just gonna follow him on this fuckin' death mission?"

Rick is reminded, suddenly, of the first house when Merle had been detoxing. _You're just going to blindly follow him like that?_ How much has changed since then, how much has Daryl's faith cemented and his love for Rick grown until the only answer would be 'Of course'? Daryl doesn't even hesitate.

He nods, his expression defiant. "I trust Rick," he says. "And I care about Lori and Carl. And Rick says War has them, and that they're not safe. So, yeah, I'm gonna go."

"He's going to get you both _killed_."

Daryl licks his lips, his eyes flashing to Rick, before he nods again, his hands tightening in Buttons' reins. "This is it," he says quietly. "This is the end. One way or another, it's gonna end." He takes a deep breath and raises his eyes to meet Maggie's again. "We need you guys to take the gate. Let us out, by any means necessary."

"I'll help you," Glenn says, and Rick sees Michonne and Carol nodding. He smiles at them. "What else do you need?"

"We need ammo, and weapons," Rick says. "And someone to run interference with Deanna until we get 'em and we're gone."

After a moment of silence, Beth shifts her weight and speaks; "I'll do it," she says, and Rick looks at her in surprise. "For Miss Patricia. I believe you. I'll do it."

Rick nods, and then the group part, leaving Rick and Daryl behind. Herschel lingers, watching Rick with sad eyes.

"You're going to kill again," he says, his voice mild.

"Whoever it takes to make sure your futures are guaranteed," Rick replies with a nod. "Watch the walls. You'll see the dead falling."

Herschel shakes his head and walks away, and Rick turns to mount Troublemaker but is stopped by Daryl's hand grabbing his shoulder tightly.

"This ain't a suicide mission," he hisses, his eyes stormy. "We're _both_ getting out of this alive, you hear me?" Rick licks his lips and shakes his head and Daryl's hand gets impossibly tighter. " _No_. You listen to me. You're going to _survive_. Just…" His voice breaks and he looks at Rick with a pleading expression, just begging Rick to agree. "Just survive. Please. Promise me."

Rick looks at him for another long moment, before he steps away from Troublemaker and grabs Daryl by the back of his neck, pulling him in for a kiss. It's a long one, Daryl clinging to him like to let Rick go would mean letting him fade into the darkness. Rick wants to stay, he wants to _stay_.

"Promise me," Daryl says when they part, his eyes bright.

"If you will, I will," Rick replies, because that is all he can guarantee. He won't go on if Daryl falls. He knows the chessboard – the last men standing, both of them. Daryl will make it to the end, at least. He'll see the birth of the new world. Rick can promise him that.

Daryl lets out a heavy breath, and nods.

 

 

 

 

Michonne gets them the weapons they need, passing it into Rick's and Daryl's hands as they ride by on the horses. Glenn is at the wall and lets out a whistle to signal their approach and Carol starts hauling the gate open. Rick is pleased to see that, despite everything, Maggie is there to help them pass.

Rick digs his heels into Troublemaker's sides and urges the horse up into a gallop, Buttons tossing her head and keeping pace behind with a low whinny, and they rush from Alexandria like Hell itself is behind them. Rick doesn't look back to see if anyone chases, and then the gates roll closed with a clatter and squeak.

They take the road at a fast pace, Aaron's map clutched tightly in Rick's hand as Buttons takes her place at Troublemaker's side and they ride out into the forest. Rick doesn't hear the gate open again as someone chases them.

The forest is silence except for the clatter of hooves on the road as they ride. When they get to the first crossroads Rick slows his horse with a low sound, sitting deep in the saddle to urge Troublemaker down to a walk and then a stop.

Daryl looks at him as Rick sighs, unfolding the map to see which direction they need to go. Aaron had said Hilltop wasn't far – less than an hour by car.

"Rick," Daryl says, and points to a section of the grass where the grass has been trampled and flattened. "Two people."

Rick frowns. "That's in the opposite direction of Hilltop," he says, his gut getting tight with fear. "Do you think it's them?"

Daryl worries his lower lip. "Maybe," he says. "Looks pretty fresh, but it's hard to tell."

"I trust you," Rick says, folding up the map and guiding Troublemaker that way. "Let's follow it as far as we can."

Daryl nods, biting his lower lip, and turns Buttons to follow as they start up at a quick pace once more and follow the road.

 


	50. Chapter 50

It doesn't make sense. Why would Lori and Carl get out and walk if they had been in the car with Andrea and Dale? Had Lori told them that they intended to travel elsewhere, away from Hilltop? Andrea might be the only person who would sympathize and understand Lori's need to be away from Rick, but he would have thought Dale wouldn't have let her and Carl just _leave_ , out on their own in a world so dangerous as it is now.

His thoughts are a mess and he does little more than follow as Daryl guides Buttons down the road, his sharp eyes on the patches of grass that have been trodden down. There's a smear in wet mud that looks like a child's sneaker and Rick feels sick to his stomach.

They come across a car, the innards of it burnt to pieces. It's still smoldering gently, wafts of smoke being dredged up by the breeze and carried off to places unknown. Rick can see Death's grinning skull in the warps and whirls of the grey smoke.

"Daryl," he whispers, his hands tightening in the reins until Troublemaker gives a snort of protest. "I'm scared."

"I know," Daryl replies. "Me too."

"Where would they go? Even if War didn't catch them, even if they were on their own and made it somewhere…I don't know the area well enough. I don't know where they'd go."

"We'll find 'em, Rick," Daryl says, and Rick can hear the _One way or the other_ that he doesn't dare voice. Rick knows. They might find them, or they might find their bodies, half-eaten and broken beyond repair. Maybe it would be a bigger mercy to let the dead take them.

But War said he had them. _"I have your mice_ ," that's what he'd told Rick. If War can be believed – but why would he lie? Rick is coming for him either way.

War has been extraordinarily patient, Rick thinks, lost to his thoughts once again as he urged Troublemaker to a slow walk behind Buttons as Daryl continues to track the footprints. Much more patient than Rick has been, but Rick is mortal and mortals have to deal with things like time and deadlines. Would War have waited until Rick simply died?

He thinks about his weapons, about how he'd put a knife to his own wrist after Shane. That would have been the ultimate victory, for Death to succumb to his own hand. Rick shivers and tries not to think about what might have happened had Daryl not found him and come for him.

"There," Daryl says, pulling Buttons to a stop, and he points to a section of grass that's trodden into a mess, the grass whirling as though the people stepping on it had abruptly turned around, and around. There are tire tracks in the verges and smears of mud on the roads in the shape of giant truck tires, but there are no vehicles around. Someone's been here, recently. "They were surrounded. Picked up here, I'd guess."

Rick bites his lower lip. "What are the chances…?" He doesn't finish the thought. There are no chances, no odds to play. This isn't a poker game. This was an ambush, a calculated attack on the weak and defenseless.

Troublemaker's ears go forward and the horse snorts, lifting his head, attuned to something he sees or hears that Rick cannot see or hear. He feels his spine get cold and his head get hot. "We should keep moving," he says warily, tightening his hands in the reins.

Daryl nods, feeling the same tense anxiety Rick is, no doubt. He becomes abruptly aware that there's no sounds. No birdcalls, no chitter of squirrels or rustling in the undergrowth. There's no life here. He digs his heels into Troublemaker's flanks to urge him to a trot, then a canter, and Buttons steps up to pace beside him as they start to ride.

Rick feels a prickling on the back of his neck and turns in the saddle to look over his shoulder, the weight in the stirrups. There's a car at the end of the road, near the crossroads where they'd started. It's a Prius, the engine purring so quietly Rick can't hear it from where they are. It's painted in all black and there are dents and smears from the undead on its hood and windshield.

He lets out a curse and urges his horse faster. "Daryl, behind us," he calls, and Daryl must have already seen or sensed it. Rick remembers how Daryl could feel eyes on him even in the middle of the break room during visiting hours, always attuned to Rick, a hunter constantly aware of other predators in his midst.

"This way!" Daryl calls, turning Buttons sharply and the mare whinnies, hooves scraping against the ground, and Daryl turns her so that she's heading straight into the woods. Rick follows as closely as he can, gritting his teeth and doing his best to keep his seat as Troublemaker does a weird prancing leap over the dip between the road and the woods, taking the verge with a steady jump and running headlong into the trees.

They ride into the brush, the horses having to slow lest they break their legs in the uneven ground. There are no trails here but when they get deeper it molds into a footpath and they turn down it, taking the path steadily and urging the horses faster. The car might not have been the Saviors – it could have been from Hilltop or the Kingdom or some other group of survivors simply looking for food and safety, but Rick can't take that chance.

The footpath hits another road and Daryl and Rick slow to a halt, the horses breathing heavily and starting to steam with sweat from the heat and humidity. Rick can feel his own sweat, dripping into his eyes and making them sting when he wipes a hand across his face.

They have three options – left, right, and forward down the path some more on the other side. The road here is narrow, two lanes, one coming and one going. There's a house buried in the trees and completely overtaken by foliage and nature once again. The mailbox marking the house is splintered and broken, laying at an angle on the ground.

Left goes back to the highway, right leads them down a narrow road where there aren't any more exist guaranteed. Rick feels tense, his hands are shaking. He doesn't know where to _go_. They've lost the trail, even if there was still a trail to follow.

He freezes when he hears a whistle. Start high, end low.

_Where are you?_

"Oh, God, no," Rick says, putting a hand to his mouth.

He can't tell where the whistle comes from but Daryl must be able to because he lets out a low curse and immediately urges Buttons right, down the narrow road. Rick has no choice but to follow him. The horses' hoofbeats are loud, unnaturally so, and sound like a death march. Troublemaker's and Button's strides don't match up, Troublemaker's are much longer and create a cacophony of mismatched beats as the horses keep a fast pace, but they can't maintain it forever.

There's another whistle, behind them. _Where are you?_ It sounds playful, the notes flat and minor. There's two of them now, a call and response. Rick lets out a curse.

"They're herding us," he breathes.

"We can outrun 'em," Daryl says.

Ahead, he can see a set of traffic lights, blinking red to indicate that oncoming traffic doesn't have the right of way. They barrel out into the road, it's a divided highway with three lanes on either side. Rick can see the blue roof of a McDonald's and the red letters of a CVS.

Then he sees the trucks.

He yanks on the reins and Troublemaker skids to a stop, rearing up with a loud whinny. There are trucks on all three sides of the crossroads. Not idling, but sitting quietly but in a perfect circle, all black. One of them is a moving truck, another a big black Jeep and a third an intimidating-looking Ford pickup. The pickup has attachments on the front meant for clearing things from the road like a giant shovel. The moving truck has spikes on it with a few undead pierced there, growling lowly.

" _Fuck_ ," Daryl says, and Buttons stops as well, tossing her head and trotting in a tight circle as Daryl brings her to a stop. They turn around to head back to see the Prius there, bright hazard lights on and Rick winces and covers his eyes and turns Troublemaker away. They're in the center of the circle now.

Start high, end low. From the trees. From the truck. Rick's blood starts to freeze up in his veins from fear, his heart is hammering. It's a chorus now of call and response, echoing each other like the mismatched clatter of the horses' hooves.

Men start to emerge from the trucks, behind them and from the trees like they'd been waiting for Rick and Daryl to stop. There are dozens of them, more than they can take on by themselves, all of them heavily armed with automatic weapons and knives. One of them has a face that's badly burned on one side. He grins at Daryl and Rick and whistles their call at them again and Rick shudders, but turns his face away because he's sure War is among these men but he doesn't recognize any of them from his visions.

Daryl looks over at him, his face pale and his eyes wide with fear. Rick shakes his head. _War isn't here._

Then Rick hears an engine start, and turns to see a red corvette slowly rolling towards them from between two of the trucks. The men part to make room for it and Rick's throat gets tight and his head goes cold. His fingers itch for his weapon.

_Knights can't move right. Daryl couldn't save you._

_He came in a red car._

The car edges forward, slowly, closer and closer until Rick pulls on Troublemaker's reins, forcing the horse back until his haunches hit the Prius. For a moment he's sure that the corvette will still try and inch closer and try and crush his horse between the cars, but then the car stops and the engine dies. He can see the shadows of two men through the windshield but the sun is just at the angle to hide the passenger's face.

Then, the doors open, and War steps out.

He looks just as Rick imagined him. He's tall, clad in a leather jacket and black jeans, a red scarf around his neck that's dirty with sweat and mud. He holds a long baseball bat in one gloved hand, loosely. The bat is wrapped with barbed wire at the end and the wire is tainted red with blood.

Rick sees this as though through a shrouded glass, because War also has a heavy cloak on his shoulders the color of blood, and a crown on his head, and his bat is not a bat but a heavy broadsword with a golden pommel and jewels in the handle. Rick trembles and pulls his horse back from between the cars, putting the car between War and himself and Daryl.

War gets out of the car and stretches his hands high above his head, wincing in the sunlight. He doesn't look at Rick at first, but around at his gathered men, who have fallen silent at his arrival. One by one, as he looks at them, they kneel. They bow their heads like supplicants to their King, and War smiles.

Then, he finally looks at Rick, and Rick doesn't feel like he can see. He's frozen with fear and anger, instinctive and strong like when he'd seen Famine and Pestilence for the first time. War has a charming smile, like a man who came out into the word with a shake's venom and hypnotic power to match. He puts his bat against his shoulder and sighs, shaking his head, eyebrows raised.

Rick licks his lips and tightens his hands in his reins. He could reach for his gun and shoot now, end it all and go down in a rain of gunfire and the world would get better. He could, but he doesn't, because that would mean Daryl would die too, and maybe Lori and Carl as well – and what use would all of this had been if the people he had been trying to save the world for weren't around to see it reborn?

War smiles at him and Rick swallows hard enough that his throat clicks. "Hello, Rick," he says brightly, smiling wide and showing his teeth. Rick thinks for a moment he sees fangs there, like he's staring down a wolf. He doesn't see a gun on War – War won't just shoot him and kill him though that would be easier. He senses that War must fall to the ultimate weapon of Death, but Death hasn't given Rick his scythe yet. "It's good to finally meet you."

"What's your name?" Rick asks. "Your real name."

War grins, and points his bat to the nearest man to the burnt face. "Who are you?" he asks.

"Negan," the man replies without hesitation, dark eyes looking up, wide.

 _Negan_.

"Who are you?" War asks, pointing to the next.

"Negan," the man says gruffly, keeping his head ducked low.

War smiles, and turns to regard Rick again. "And who am I?" he asks of the group.

"Negan," they say in chorus.

Of course. War needs an army, he needs to conquer and that can only be done with a united front. These Saviors, they are all of him, but there is only one War. Rick bites his lip to stop the angry snarl forming in his chest from coming out. He looks at this man and he hates.

The name _Negan_ strikes something in him, something assured and powerful as ocean tides. _This_ is War. This has always been War. Rick would look upon him and know him. It has always been destined to come to this point, to this place. Rick killed his best friend for nothing.

Negan smiles at him. "I am Negan," he says proudly, like a strutting cock, chest puffed up and proud. He moves like he's been born into a vessel much too big, his motions strong and broad and sure. He does not move with gentleness like Death – everything War does, he does to conquer and dominate and control.

"And you know who I am," Rick says. " _What_ I am."

Negan grins. "I've seen you in my dreams," he replies, his voice a low purr. He looks Rick up and down and shakes his head. "Come on, now, you and I have a lot of history together. Get down from your horse. Look at me like a man."

Rick nods, and moves his feet from the stirrups, swinging one leg over Troublemaker's back and putting it on the ground. He steps away from the horse and gently pushes on his shoulder so that he goes to Daryl and Buttons.

Negan walks up to him and Rick fights the urge to flinch. He reaches for his gun and pulls it out of its holster, holding it ready, and sees Negan's hand tighten on his bat.

Negan laughs, this low and happy thing, and Rick shivers. He turns his face away and grits his teeth when he feels the sharp barbs of the bat tuck themselves under his chin and force his gaze up.

"Yours have a name?" Negan asks.

Rick presses his lips together and shakes his head. "This isn't my real weapon," he says.

Negan laughs, dropping the bat, and steps back with his whole body swaying into the motion. "Of course not!" he says, and laughs again to an echoing chorus from his men, like they find the whole thing supremely amusing, like Death is something to be laughed at. Rick clenches his jaw and glares at Negan's back.

"You have something of mine," Rick calls, his voice slicing through the laughter and Negan goes still, turning to face him. "You have my people. Let 'em go. You got no beef with anyone but me."

"Oh, Rick, I think you're _severely_ misunderstanding the situation. Makes me happier than a sailor on shore leave, I'll tell ya that." He grins and Rick shudders, and thinks about putting the muzzle of his gun between Negan's teeth. Negan points at him with the bat and Rick freezes when he hears a clatter of guns.

He turns his head to see Daryl has his crossbow ready and aimed at Negan's head. "Touch him and this goes in your eye," Daryl bites out. Negan lets out a huffing laugh, his eyes wide in mock fear, and he spreads his hands out as though begging Daryl for mercy.

"Oh, ho! You've got yourself a good right-hand man there, _Prick_ ," he says, practically alight with glee. "But he doesn't seem the brightest. Twenty 'gainst one? Not good odds."

"We've had worse," Rick replies, baring his teeth in a smile. "Pestilence found that out the hard way."

Negan's eyes flash and Rick sees the shadow of War pass across his face for a moment, before he shakes his head as though clearing it. Rick wonders, if things had been even a little different, if Negan would have found himself at the same facility as Rick down in Atlanta. If he hears War's voice whispering in his head as well, promising him power and glory if he simply obeyed. Death has never promised him such things – Death is pragmatic. There's only one way for this to end for Rick.

Negan presses his lips together and looks at Rick for a long moment. "Come, Rick," he says, gesturing behind him. "Walk with me."

Rick takes in a breath, and nods. "Daryl, put your weapon down," he says, and Daryl looks at him like he's crazy, but obeys. Rick slides his gun back into his holster and Negan lowers the bat. "Promise me you won't hurt him."

Negan smiles. "If he's smart, he'll be safe," he says, and then looks to the man with the burnt face as though relaying the order. "Keep Death's bitch boy here. We'll be back soon."

Daryl growls, shifting his weight on Buttons, but then Rick can't look at him. He can't tell Daryl that he'll be alright – he can't even whistle. He won't whistle their note, won't give War the satisfaction of knowing it. He clenches his fist until his wrist aches and walks past Negan, through the small ring of kneeling men, and past the trucks until they're out in the middle of the road, just the two of them.

Rick blinks, looking ahead, and sees Death and War standing at the end of the road. "Can you see them?" he asks Negan.

Negan nods, smiling. "Ain't it a pretty sight?"

Rick shivers and keeps walking until they're a short distance away from the ring of the cars. He hates not being able to see Daryl and hopes that War is honorable enough to keep his word. If he loses Daryl, he'll kill the man right now. He'll kill Negan either way, but there's a smart way to play this and Death has to be patient. He'll get his due.

"Are you going to kill me?" Rick asks when Negan comes to a stop. The man takes a deep breath, closing his eyes and turning his face to the sunlight. It's oppressively hot, he can't imagine how warm the man is under all that leather. Of course, War is heat and pain anyway, perhaps he must suffer as is his duty as a vessel.

"Now why would I do that?"

"I'd kill you flat out, if the situation were reversed," Rick says.

"Ah, that's because you're Death, and Death only has one way of fixing things," Negan says with a grin. Rick shivers and looks away. "See, I'll admit, Rick, I've been watching you for a while. You're my kinda man – you're crazy as fuck, ain't no two ways about it, but you're _my_ kinda crazy."

Rick frowns.

"Problem is, you're also wrong," Negan says. "Pestilence and Famine ain't dead."

Rick's gaze snaps to them and he snarls. "No," he replies. "I killed them. I _killed_ them."

"No," Negan replies, shaking his head. "I conquered them. Tried to get Alexandria too, but the place was just too big, had walls that were too high, and I kept thinkin' 'Just wait, just wait a little longer, you'll get your chance', and then you just waltzed right into the place and I _knew_ , ah, Lord, Rick, I think I fell in love with ya right then. You give me such good dreams."

"I don't understand," Rick says. His hands are starting to shake. War is confidence and bravado and he's a _Goddamn liar_ because Rick _killed_ those other horsemen. He looked into their _eyes_ when they died. Doubt and uncertainty threaten to choke him like a snake. If he was wrong about Shane…could he have been wrong about all of it?

 _No_. No, he's not wrong. He _can't_ be wrong.

"You think I fuck with Hilltop and the Kingdom 'cause they had the best shit?" Negan asks, then laughs – a hearty guffaw that makes him double over, and he shakes his head and wipes away a pretend tear. "No, Rick, it's because Famine and Pestilence run the joints. And now they're mine. They kneeled for me and now they're mine. Which just…leaves…you."

Rick looks at him with wide eyes and takes a step back. Negan grins at him, his eyes flashing red.

"Now, it'd be a real sweet thing, Rick, if you'd kneel for me too. Then, together, all of us, could wipe the whole slate clean and see this place put right."

"You're crazy," Rick breathes. "Pestilence and Famine are dead. When one of us dies, that's it. We _all_ have to die to make the world right again."

"Death's been tellin' you stories," Negan says. "You find it comforting? Knowing you gotta die and you don't even get to see the world fix itself from this shitshow?"

"That's the way it has to be," Rick whispers. "That's the way it _has_ to be. I've _seen_ it."

"You wanna know what I see?" Negan says, and throws a hand around Rick's shoulders. Rick flinches and Negan pulls him close, gesturing with his bat to encompass all that lays out in front of them. "I see the undead, Rick. I see 'em, stretchin' out for miles and miles. It's us versus them, you understand. Ain't no reason we all gotta fight one another, you get me?"

Negan's voice is right by his ear, seductive and low, and Rick whimpers.

"I want to see my son," Rick says, repeating it like a mantra in his head."

Negan laughs. "That boy's your kid?" he asks, and huffs. "Should'a known. Could see the baby serial killer in him, just waitin' to be given a chance to shine."

"You won't hurt them?" Rick asks. "Lori, Carl, Daryl…anyone in Alexandria. You won't hurt 'em?"

Negan pulls away so that Rick can see his face. He's smiling, his eyes alight, the gold on his crown shining in the sunlight so brightly Rick almost can't bear to look at him.

"I want to see them," Rick says again, weakly.

"You will," Negan says. He brings his bat around and puts the end against Rick's chest, pressing against him until the barbs start to bite into his skin through his clothes. "You kneel, you get Alexandria. I'll give you a kingdom to rule, Rick. I'll keep you protected, give you whatever you need to help me fight the horde. Just…kneel."

Rick closes his eyes and bows his head. His head is burning, stuffed to the brim with cotton wool. He had known this would end in his death, the ultimate surrender – it had never occurred to him that War might not think the same way. War just needs to conquer, needs to control. If Rick surrenders to him it's as good as dying.

But Negan is wrong. Famine and Pestilence are dead. His vision isn't one that can happen because Rick has already made sure it can't. He raises his head and looks out towards Death and War. Death is grinning, always grinning, and sitting on his pale horse. Red is riding his crimson charger, the horse cloaked in black battle armor, prancing in place and ready to charge.

Death reaches for his scythe, long fingers of bone closing around the black handle, the white of his hand standing out starkly, and pulls it from his back. The blade is long and sharp enough to cut rainwater in half, cleave souls from their prison. Rick starts to sweat but he's frozen to the bone, feeling Death's power leach into him as Death holds out his scythe for Rick to take.

Rick wraps a hand around it, just shy of Death's grip, and looks up into those dark, endless eyes. The void stares back at him, chilling him to the bone.

He starts to laugh, and thinks that the lines on the road, the smears of blood and mud, look like the patchwork of a chessboard. The Kings are standing toe to toe, ready to strike each other down. _Daryl can't save you_.

But maybe, if Rick strikes first, he won't need to.

Rick closes his eyes again and licks his dry lips, and lets out a whistle. Low, high, low.

 _I love you_.

He hears Daryl's shout of alarm and grabs Death's scythe, swinging it around in a broad arc aimed for Negan's head, and hears the first rounds of gunfire shatter the silence like a twenty-one gun salute to a General's death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so two things! In the show the Saviors actually USE the "Where are you" whistle - high, low. It was totally by accident but it actually works out really well and I'm quite pleased with myself for it.
> 
> AND BEFORE ANYONE KILLS ME. Don't assume what I know you're all assuming. DON'T ASSUME IT. I promise!!!


	51. Chapter 51

The feeling of sudden, swift motion meeting opposing, immovable force is jarring. Rick feels his fingers get tight around the handle of the scythe, his injured wrist protesting sharply. It's almost like he snapped it all over again, and his hand feels weak around the smooth, black wood.

The sound of gunfire is still going on, and Rick feels each one hitting him right behind the eyes like he's taking each bullet. He knows what it feels like to get shot, he _knows_ that, and each sound is the first impact, the burn of flesh melting apart and organs parting weakly under the strength of the bullet. It's the pain ricocheting through each nerve ending and muscle. His blood is cold, like his entire body is shutting down.

He blinks, looking at Negan's grinning face with wide eyes. The blade of his scythe – but it's his machete now, both his hands clasped tight around the red handle – is embedded deep between the barbed wire wrapped around the head of the bat.

He lets go of the machete, his hand too weak to hold it when Negan yanks his bat back, and Negan pulls it from the bat and holds it in his hand. He laughs and shakes his head. "Man, you're one stupid son of a bitch, ain'tcha?"

Rick licks his lips and swallows, taking a step back. War's golden crown shines on Negan's head and his eyes are red. "I don't want to kill you, Rick," Negan says.

"I want to kill you," Rick replies.

More shots ring out and Rick flinches, taking another step back. His injured wrist goes to his heart and he gasps, feeling like someone has reached into his chest with a clawed hand and tried to tug out his ribs. His knees shake and buckle and he falls to them as Negan steps forward.

"It doesn't have to be like this," Negan says. He holds the machete loosely, tilting the blade in his hand so that the metal catches the glint of sunlight and gold in his crown.

"You made me," Rick whispers, his voice choked and quiet.

"I didn't make you do nothin'," Negan whispers. His expression is dark, his jaw set. "Well, I guess this is the way it has to be. We could have been great together, Rick. It's a damn shame."

Rick heaves a breath. It can't end like this. _It can't end like this_. After everything – after his visions, and his coma, and his dreams. After Carl, and Daryl, and Shane… It can't end like this. But Rick can't _move_.

There are shouts coming from behind the trucks. Rick turns his head to look, but he can't see past the giant carrier truck blocking the road. He can't see anything except scuffling shadows and moving feet below the truck. It's weird, he thinks he can see shoes and jeans that weren't there before.

" _Dad_!"

Rick raises his eyes and gasps. Carl and Lori are there – where did they come from? He sees Carl standing in the middle of the road, his eyes wide, Lori rushing into place behind him. Her face is pale with fear, and she grabs Carl by the shoulders as though to haul him away from the danger, but the boy fights her. There are tears on his face like he's been crying for a while, his face red with pain and fear. Another gunshot rings out and Lori flinches, trying to get Carl out of the way of the danger.

War had them. War had them here the whole time.

"Dad, look out!"

Rick looks up just as Negan's bat comes down and he ducks, the bat hits his raised arm instead of the side of his head where it was aimed, and sends Rick to his hands and knees. Rick hisses in pain, collapsing onto one hand and one elbow, his injured hand and his wrist shattered and bloody.

He hears a horse's shriek and looks up and sees War's red stallion rearing up, reading to strike him down. He rolls away and the bat collides with the concrete where the horse's hooves would have hit. He shoves himself to his feet, breathing heavily as Negan swings for him again, and he jumps back, the bat roaring lowly as it passes in front of his chest.

"C'mon, Rick, why are you fightin' me?" Negan demands. He's still smiling but Rick thinks his face might just be stuck like that – the grinning puppet with War tugging on the strings. His eyes are stormy with anger. "We're brothers!"

"I killed my brother," Rick replies. His vision is blurring with pained tears. His hands are shaking and his chest feels like it's been caved in. "You made me kill my brother."

"You can't win," Negan snarls. He swings his bat again and immediately follows it with Rick's machete and Rick ducks away, narrowly missing losing his arm to the machete swing. His heart is thrumming in his chest and he feels sick with worry, over Daryl and Lori and Carl. He _has_ to win. It can't end like this. If he dies, what will become of the rest of the world. "Famine has fallen, Pestilence too. There's just us, Rick. _Kneel_ , and let's be done with it!"

Rick takes in a short, gasping breath. His blood is thawing, alight with something not quite anger, not quite stubborn righteousness. War is a _fool_. He called Death arrogant, taunted and teased Rick to within an inch of his sanity. It's because of him that Shane is gone. It's because of him that Rick's family doesn't trust him. He's the cause of everything.

"You're wrong," Rick growls. Negan glares at him and Rick straightens up, taking in a deep breath. Blood drips from his broken arm down onto the ground, a bright red that instantly gets dark atop the grey concrete. "You're _nothing_ without me, without _Death_." He bares his teeth and Negan swings for him again and Rick catches the machete in his injured hand, gritting his teeth and clenching his hand tightly shut as the serrated edge bites into his palm. It hurts, the swing hard enough to sever his palm, but he holds on as tightly as he can.

Negan growls, his eyes alight with fire. He's arrogant and cocky and he's smiling because he thinks he's won. After all, Rick is outnumbers, outgunned, and certainly not in the prime physical condition that War is. War would choose someone strong, tall, who carried himself like a King.

"You're making a big mistake," Negan whispers, yanking the machete away from Rick's grip and Rick howls, clutching his hand to his chest. His blood is warm against his skin through his clothes and he clenches his fingers tightly.

His hand feels cold with blood-loss. Death's influence isn't coming to help him. He doesn't feel the ice seeping into the nape of his neck and spreading down. He doesn't feel the calm overtaking him. He's afraid, and tense, and trembling.

He lowers his hand and shakes his head. "No," he says. "No, you're wrong. You've always been wrong. You know how I know?"

Negan smirks, his hand tightening around his bat. He's gearing up for the final charge. Behind him, War rears up high on his horse, his lance and sword at the ready. War is strangling Negan, clouding his thoughts, filling him to the brim with rage. Rick is open, vulnerable, standing close enough that he can't keep dodging when Negan presses his attack.

Negan smiles, like he senses Rick's resignation. "Any last words, Death?" he whispers, his voice has a second layer like the booming of a canon, it echoes on the open street. He closes his eyes and sighs. He can hear Carl sobbing.

"Yeah," Rick says, and opens his eyes again. His injured hand drops to his pistol and wraps around it quickly. "You brought a bat to a Goddamn gunfight."

Negan's eyes go wide when he pulls his pistol out. It's heavy in his grip, but the gun has always been his friend, his hand molded to it as easily as a lover's touch. The blood makes the grip slick and he holds it as tightly as he can. He raises it, his arm shaking, and fires.

Negan falls, a big, red hole in the center of his forehead. He sinks to one knee, first, the machete falling from his hand, and then his body slumps over in a dazed heap. Rick lets out a low snarl and fires again, and again, into Negan's chest. Then he steps forward, and the machete melts into a scythe once more as soon as he touches it. He swings it down and lodges it in Negan's skull, through the top of his skull.

The feeling of sudden, swift motion meeting opposing, immovable force is jarring. Rick stumbles back like he's been shot, and falls to his knees with a cry. He raises his hands to his face, blood smeared across his cheek and eyes as his body heaves with a dry, racking sob.

It's done. It's _done_ , and the deep-seated knowledge of it is like the strongest hit of any drug he could possibly imagine. The tears that had gathered in his eyes spill out, staining his face and his hands. He's crying but it's not with sorrow. It's _done_.

He hears the soft, steady clop of hooves and turns his head to see the familiar mottling of Troublemaker come into view. The horse is bleeding from what looks like a bullet in his shoulder, his left foreleg hobbling just slightly as he walks. The horse leans his head down and nudges Negan's bat.

Rick presses his lips together. Just because it's done doesn't mean everything is finished. He still has work to do.

He stands, grabbing the bat and holstering his pistol. Carl runs towards him, fighting free of his mother's grip, and throws himself against Rick's chest, his face level with the bloodstain from Rick's hand. He's sobbing openly, clinging to Rick as tightly as he can.

"Dad, I'm sorry," he sobs. "I'm so sorry."

"Everything's going to be alright," Rick replies, hugging Carl's shoulders weakly with his injured hand. "Go to your mother. Cover your eyes."

Carl pulls back and looks at him with wide eyes. "Your face…" he says, touching his own cheek, and Rick nods. He can feel it – feel the skull sitting behind his skin, grinning with victory. The gunfire has fallen completely silent, put into static by the sound of Rick's weapon. Rick is the end of it all, now. War has fallen, and Death reigns supreme.

He walks past Carl and Carl follows him. Lori reaches out to grab him and pull him to her stomach and Rick stops to look at her. He imagines he looks like a monster to her right now, coated in blood after killing a man right in front of her. She's never seen him kill anyone before.

Lori's expression is tight and her eyes dart to Negan's corpse. "I thought we'd be safer," she says. "Anywhere."

Rick nods. "And now?"

"Now…" Lori swallows hard, and shakes her head. Rick turns away from her and walks to the trucks. He stops just behind the ring, bracing himself for what he might find there. The thought of rounding the corner, of seeing Daryl dead or dying, fills him with fear. He licks his lips and whistles.

Low, high, low.

For an agonizingly long moment, everything is quiet, and then Daryl steps around the front of the truck and Rick's vision goes white with relief. He collapses against Daryl and pulls him close, his bloody hand going to the man's hair and fisting tightly. He shoves Daryl against the side of the truck and kisses him and Daryl answers him back just as fiercely, clinging to Rick like they're trapped underwater and Rick is the only source of air.

He kisses Daryl again, and again, until they're breathless with it. "I was so scared," Rick says, his hand sliding to Daryl's nape and gripping it tightly. "I heard the gunshots. What happened?"

"Come see," Daryl replies, and Rick nods and parts from him just enough so that Daryl can lead him around the truck bed. Carl and Lori follow.

The Saviors have fallen. Bodies litter the site in a wide ring and those that are still alive are on their knees in a line. Rick blinks, his eyes widening when he sees that he and Daryl had not been alone. Glenn is there, a gun held steady on the man with the burnt face. Maggie is next to him, her jaw set and eyes bright with anger.

Aaron is on the other side of the line, a gun he must have taken from a falling Savior held ready. Eric is next to him with his pistol. There's another man that Rick never learned the name of but he recognizes as being that of Alexandria. Michonne has her katana out, the blade red, and Carol is next to her, steel in her eyes.

He meets Glenn's eyes. "You followed me," he says, low with awe.

Glenn nods, pressing his lips together. "We protect our people," he replies. The rest of his group nod with him. Carol sees Lori and goes to her, wrapping her in a tight hug, and then Carl. Carl is still crying and clings to her when she wets a cloth from her pocket and starts to wipe at his face where Rick's blood has touched him.

Rick's hand clenches around the baseball bat and he lets out a low growl, stepping out in front of the line of Saviors. There are seven of them left, kneeling on the ground and looking at him with a range of looks from outright defiance to open fear.

"Your leader has fallen," he says to them, and then points the end of the bat towards the first man. He's the biggest one, the meanest-looking one, with a tattoo on his face and hatred in his eyes when he looks up at Rick. "Who are you?"

"Rick," Lori starts, only to fall silent when Rick glares at her. He looks back at the man.

" _Negan_ ," the man spits, and Rick sighs. He pulls out his pistol and shoots the man in the skull. Everyone flinches when the man falls.

He goes to the next. "Who are you?" he asks. It's the man with the scarred, burned face. His eyes are wide and dark when he looks up at Right.

He licks his lips. "My name is Dwight," he says.

Rick nods, smiling. "You got a family, Dwight?" he asks.

Dwight nods. "A wife," he says. "Sister-in-law."

Rick nods, and goes to the next man. "Who are you?" he asks.

"Bill," the man replies quickly. "Bill Graham."

Rick smiles, and goes down the line. Dwight. Bill. Tony. Robert. Harrison. Colin. John.

He steps back out in front of them and then tosses the bat to one side. It clatters hollowly against the concrete and rolls to a stop next to the red Corvette.

"There is no more Negan," he says, loud enough that everyone can hear him. "There is no more War. No more _Saviors_. I want you all to understand that." They nod, wide-eyed and afraid. None of them are looking at him with defiance now and Rick thinks it's a decadent feeling, to have hardened men kneeling in front of him. No wonder War was so seductive. Had Rick been a different man, before all of this, he might have knelt just for the chance to have that taste of glory and victory.

He feels like a King now, standing in front of his subjects, the blood of a fallen enemy on his face. His hand is still bleeding, weak now that the adrenaline is fading from him, but he forces himself to remain upright. He cannot afford to show weakness now.

"How many more of you are there?" Rick asks.

"We have a few outposts," Dwight says. "About a hundred men in total."

Rick nods. "Go to them," he commands. "Tell them that there is no more Negan. You may manage yourself, if you'd like. Or you may go to Hilltop or the Kingdom and fall to your knees and beg them to take you. You are not welcome in Alexandria."

"Rick," Aaron says quietly, his eyes wide.

Rick shakes his head. "I don't want to kill you," he says. He looks at each of the men in order, and then steps forward and crouches down so that they're at eye level to him. "But understand this; I will hunt each and every one of you down like _dogs_ if I hear even a whisper of that name."

They nod.

"We're keeping your weapons," Rick says. "You may take what you can drive, and go. Go now, before I change my mind."

He stands and nods to Glenn, Maggie and Aaron, who step back. His group form a tight funnel for the men to walk through, their heads bowed and eyes lowered. They take the trucks, the Corvette, and the Prius. Rick doesn't move until he sees the rooves of the cars take the nearest turn, out towards a sign signaling the presence of an airport. He doesn't move until he can't hear the rumble of the vehicles anymore.

Then, there's silence. The silence of a tomb. It stretches over all of them like they're nothing more than statues. Rick takes a deep breath, closing his eyes, and it feels like he can breathe freely for the first time in years. The bullets have leached out of his body and for the first time since he was shot, he feels whole. Completely without fault, without weakness.

He looks over at Daryl who regards him with a raised eyebrow. There's some pretty mean-looking road rash on his arm and Rick nods to it. "Gunfire spooked Buttons," Daryl says. "She threw me and took off."

"Troublemaker will find her," Rick replies, and then he starts to laugh. "It's over," he says, shaking his head. "It's…it's finally fucking _over_."

"He was War?" Glenn whispers. "Negan?"

Rick nods.

"He was the red King," Carl says, breaking the silence. Rick turns to look at him and Carl stares at him with wide eyes. He sees _Rick_ now, and will never again see the shadow of Death on Rick's face, or his scythe arcing over Rick's head, or hear the horses in the night.

He takes another deep breath and looks at Lori. "I told him what you did," she confesses, and Rick nods, figuring as much. She has been silent for a long time when it comes to telling Carl about his father's psychosis – although Rick wonders if he can even be called crazy anymore when he was right. No one can deny that he was right. "I told him about Shane."

"Is it true?" Carl asks, teary-eyed. "You killed Shane?"

Rick nods. "I thought he was War," he says. "I was wrong."

Carl starts to cry again. "Is it really over?" he whispers, stuttering.

"Yes," Rick says. He holds out his arms and Carl runs into them, hugging him tightly. Rick leans down to press a kiss to the top of his head. When he looks up again he sees Death standing in the middle of the road, Troublemaker by his side. The horse whinnies in greeting, ears forward, and then Death disappears.

 

 

 

Deanna doesn't welcome them back, although she allows the gates to open so that they can all walk inside. Lori immediately is taken to see the doctor along with Rick, and Michonne and Carol take Carl to clean him up and find him fresh clothes. Aaron, Glenn and Maggie go with Eric to return the weapons to the armory.

Rick's palm gets stitches and his hand is wrapped up tightly enough that he can't move his wrist or arm well at all. The iodine stings his cuts but he bears it with ease, too high on the conquest of living through it all to care. He feels like he can move a mountain, and slay a giant. He feels invincible.

Reg is at the front of their house when Daryl and Rick approach. He looks old, much older than when Rick first met him. He's standing with Herschel who greets them with a small nod. "You boys are going to be a lot of trouble," Reg says.

"We solved your problem," Daryl replies, aggressively. "Saviors ain't gonna bother no one anymore."

"And if they do, we'll be around to take care of it," Rick adds. He looks at Herschel and sighs, a weak smile coming to his face. "I'm not a hunted man anymore."

Herschel blinks at him, before he sighs and nods. "Perhaps now you'll find peace."

Daryl huffs, and then strides past the men into the house. Rick follows him, and Daryl leads him down to the basement. As soon as the door closes behind them, they're enveloped in darkness, the only light coming in through the little window in the basement door that leads to the backyard.

Daryl turns to him and puts his hands in Rick's shirt, tugging him close and kissing him. "I know we've beaten this dead horse a thousand times," he says roughly, kissing Rick again in a way that makes Rick gasp, clinging to Daryl with his weakened hands. "But you're stayin'. Not leavin' me, right?"

"Never," Rick vows. He feels at peace for the first time in a century. Death has not come to him to demand that final sacrifice. Maybe he will, at a quiet moment when all is still, but right now Rick is alive and he's _here_ and Daryl has him in the palms of his hands, cradling him like a God with its first creation. Daryl kisses him again and Rick knows he can taste Rick's blood on his mouth. He doesn't seem to care.

"Good," Daryl growls, and then shoves Rick backwards in a way that makes Rick fall to his knees on their pallet of blankets and sleeping bags. Daryl stands over him like a powerful knight and Rick shivers, biting his lip.

Daryl sighs and collides with him, shoving Rick down onto his back. "I thought I'd lost you," he says roughly, his voice wavering and giving away just how scared he was. Rick can feel his shaking hands, the stutter of his heart. "That bastard took you away from me and I just thought….I thought 'He could come right back. I wouldn't have even said goodbye', and I heard you whistle and I thought…"

"I was going to kneel for him," Rick confesses, between one kiss and the next. Daryl is sitting on his thighs and Rick's arm is too weak to put his weight on so he can't lean up, can only cling weakly to Daryl's thighs and let the man touch and move as he pleases. "He told me that the Kingdom and Hilltop houses Pestilence and Famine, and that if I knelt for him he would be able to heal the world."

"Well, we both know that's not true," Daryl says, sitting up. His hands are braced on Rick's chest, warm and wide. "You killed 'em. I know you did. You did it."

Rick smiles. "Kiss me," he says, and Daryl leans down and obeys, his mouth parting sweetly for Rick's tongue when Rick presses deeper. Fissures of warmth and pleasure are sinking in where the hand in his chest was, filling him up like liquid lightning. Daryl makes him feel alive even when Death is all there is left.

"I love you," Daryl whispers, his voice breaking. "I'm with you. Until the end of everythin'."

"That's all I want," Rick says. Carl is safe. Lori is safe. His family and his group and his friends are safe. Maybe not in the way he thought, maybe never in that way, in the way without walkers and with the world healed and whole, but he has carved out a place for them that promises life and love and happiness, a _future_ , and he gets to be around to see it. " _You're_ all I want. Forever."

Daryl lets out a rough, wanting sound, and pulls back so that he can work at the buttons of Rick's shirt, parting it and baring his chest. He leans down and kisses Rick's exposed chest and Rick moans softly, fisting a hand in Daryl's dirty hair.

"We don't have to stay here," Rick murmurs, his eyes closing as Daryl opens his mouth wide and sucks a mark on Rick's neck, just below the collar line of most of his shirts. The t-shirts won't hide it, but Rick doesn't give a damn about that. "We don't belong here. I know that."

"We ain't talkin' about this now," Daryl replies, running his hands through Rick's hair and lifting him for a kiss. Rick moans softly, weak and shaking under Daryl's touches. He tenses his stomach, pressing his feet against the ground to allow himself to grind up between Daryl's legs. "We both almost fuckin' died out there. I don't wanna talk."

Rick nods, moaning weakly again when Daryl bites at his jaw, then his neck, laying another mark there. Daryl climbs off of him and goes to their bags, dragging out the bottle of lube, and then returns to Rick.

"Can you manage?" Daryl asks, and Rick nods, forcing his fingers to work past the pain and undo his belt and his jeans as Daryl strips down as well, until they're both naked in the semi-darkness. The light on Daryl's skin makes him look like something otherworldly, some beast destined to survive the Apocalypse and Rick is the one lucky enough to see him like this. Daryl lays down next to him and uncaps the lube, squirting it on his fingers before he sets the bottle aside.

Rick sighs, stroking himself idly as Daryl gets himself ready. The little grunts and moans Daryl lets out as he stretches himself open are the sweetest noises Rick has ever heard – they feel decadent after today, and as much as Rick had liked having broken men kneeling at his feet, it doesn't compare to when he's on his knees for Daryl, or when he's buried deep inside of the other man and listening to him and feeling him move against Rick like they were made to collide and grind like tectonic plates and landslides.

Daryl pulls his fingers out of himself and kisses Rick again, crawling onto his hands and knees and straddling Rick once more. Rick growls into the kiss, his cock twitching when Daryl's heat settles over him and he feels the wet head of Daryl's cock rubbing against his stomach.

Daryl reaches back and wraps his fingers around Rick's cock, and lifts up so that he can push Rick's cockhead against his hole. Then, he lets go, and sighs when he starts to slowly sink down, his body parting as graciously as it always has for Rick. Rick growls low in his bruised throat, his good hand clenching tightly on Daryl's hip as Daryl sinks down onto him with a low, round groan.

Daryl keeps his motion steady, sinking down until the backs of his thighs touch Rick. He doesn't move at first, the both of them just soaking in the silence and the rightness of it all. His hands settle on Rick's chest and he brushing his hands up Rick's body slowly, cataloguing every bruise, every scar and scratch. Rick trembles when Daryl touches the marks he just left, and turns his head to bare his throat so that Daryl can wrap a hand there.

Then, Daryl starts to move – slow rocks of his hips that let Rick feel him, clenching tight and hot and slick around his cock. It feels amazing, the high of a drug with none of the withdrawal, and Rick groans when Daryl's thighs tense and lift himself up, and then he sinks back down just as slowly.

"I love you," Rick breathes, weak with it when it hits him in the chest right under Daryl's hand. "I'm gonna stay."

Daryl lets out a weak, shivery exhale. He sounds like he's in pain but Rick can see his face, twisted up in pleasure, his eyes glowing bright and silvery in the light. "Good," he replies, the word coming out weakly. "That's – that's good."

Rick closes his eyes and rolls his hips, chasing Daryl's heat whenever Daryl lifts himself up, relaxing when Daryl comes back down. It's slow, steady in a way they've never been allowed to be. Rick loses himself to it, there's no cold touching his head and his heart anymore. Daryl has melted that away, thawed him to the bone and for the first time in what feels like forever, Rick feels his flesh and his muscles and his skin and doesn't wish that he were bone. He doesn't ache for the hollowness of an empty ribcage of skull. He wants to be _alive_. He wants to _live_.

Daryl moans weakly, his hand going from Rick's neck to his own cock, stroking quickly and Rick shivers, biting his lip when he feels Daryl getting tighter around him, rhythmic contractions around his cock that threaten to drive him to the edge far too soon. The urgency is there, the reins tugging at his mouth and urging him to a sprint.

Daryl comes with a soft moan, spilling hot and heavy on Rick's stomach, and he collapses into a kiss, his come-smeared hand touching Rick's bloody cheek. Rick bites his lower lip, urging his mouth open, and wraps his arms around Daryl's back as Daryl lifts up onto his knees and lets Rick plant his feet and thrust quickly up into him. Daryl moans, urging him on with soft words and sweet kisses, until Rick goes tense and still, grabbing Daryl's hips again and forcing him down onto his cock so that he can soak Daryl and mark him as deeply as he can.

He goes lax and Daryl lifts himself up so that Rick's cock slides out of him, a thick rivulet of come following behind, but he remains straddling Rick's thighs, kissing him fiercely as Rick trembles beneath him. Rick doesn't imagine anything can feel this right, with blood on his hands and face and Daryl above him, kissing it away and marking him in turn.

They sleep, after. Rick doesn't fear going to sleep and it comes to him easily. He isn't afraid of the field with the fire, or of Death coming to him at night with terrifying visions. He slips into slumber easily, his cheek against Daryl's chest, the rhythm of his breathing and heartbeat lulling him under.

 

 

 

Rick wakes first, and for once he doesn't feel exhausted and tired. He doesn't wake in a cold sweat as he has every other night, but the room is freezing.

He sits up and sees the shadow of Death in the corner. He swallows, looking back at Daryl, who remains sleeping. It's strange – Daryl normally wakes at the first sign of motion from Rick. Perhaps he's still dreaming.

He stands, bare to Death's gaze, and walks over to him. Death grins at him, his scythe held in a loose grip across his lap.

 _You've had a change of heart,_ Death says mildly. _I told you I had no need of disciples._

Rick nods. "You also said you wouldn't take him away from me."

 _And I won't_ , Death replies. He's almost indiscernible in the darkness, but the void of his eyes is blacker than black, and Rick gazes into them and he sees bright lights, pinpricks as though very far away. As he stares at them they get bigger, and his eyes widen when the pinpricks morph into the shapes of men.

Famine is there first, with his gaping maw and his sharp teeth. Pestilence comes after, a white light reflecting in his fly-like eyes. Then, War, gleaming and coated in red. Death stands and Rick takes a step back.

 _It's time for you to finish this, Rick,_ Death says.

Rick bites his lower lip, and then he shakes his head. "No," he replies.

Death cocks his head to one side. _If this is not the end, then it will never be the end. The disease will spread and overtake everything. The world will burn. Is this what you wish?_

"I don't believe that."

_That is the human in you speaking. Your instinct to survive, your love for your disciple, clouds your judgement._

"I've never seen more clearly," Rick says. "We can survive. This world…can recover. With or without you." He smiles, sheepishly, and shakes his head. "Death can't die. Daryl's been saying it all along. But Death can't die – all other things can, but Death can't."

Death hums, the sound like the movement of a great slab of stone in a mausoleum. Then he starts to laugh. His grin is wide in his skull and the lights of the horsemen each flicker and die like a snuffed candle flame.

_I knew I had chosen well._

Rick blinks. "You won't…force me?" he asks.

_I cannot bid you do anything beyond your free will. I cannot make you die. That has never been my duty, that has never been what I am._

Rick nods, letting out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding. "So what happens now?"

_You carry on, I suppose. I'm sure we will see each other again._

Rick licks his lips, staring with wide eyes as Death steps forward him. He touches Rick's face gently and presses his teeth against Rick's forehead. It feels like a blessing, one certainty to another. As long as Rick survives, the world is still doomed, but it will continue to spin. And Rick will continue to survive. He will stay.

Death turns, and the door to the backyard opens with a wave of his hand. He steps out into the night and Rick squints, following him and standing just inside of the threshold. Death's small white horse is there and Death mounts it. Around him the other horsemen's' steeds appear, the big red horse without a rider, the fleet-footed black with blood in its mane, and the white horse wasted away to almost bone.

Death grins at Rick and raises his scythe in a salute. _Until the end of days, my friend,_ he says, and Rick nods and waves his hand in a gesture of farewell, sure that the next time he sees Death will be when his time comes. It could be tomorrow, a move too stupid or too unlucky, a bite from a walker – it could be a year from now, a car careening off the road and hitting a tree. It could be when he's old and grey, sick with a cold that just won't budge and in his bed surrounded by his grandchildren.

Death's horse rears up, a whinny slicing through the air, and then Death rides away into the darkness, the other three horses following behind. Rick smiles and turns, closing the door, and returns to Daryl's side.

Daryl stirs, grunting sleepily, and squints at Rick as Rick embraces him. "Bad dream?" he asks, smoothing a hand down Rick's bare arm.

Rick smiles and kisses him, cupping his face to make it last until they both run out of air. "No," he replies. "A good one this time."

Daryl smiles. "You're…still stayin' right?" he asks, his voice young and weak and wary.

Rick kisses him again. "Yes," he says. "For as long as you'll have me."

After all, there are things worth staying here for. Daryl, of course. Seeing Carl become a man and start a family of his own. Raising the little girl Lori will bear. Seeing Glenn and Maggie get married if they decide to. He must keep watch, the silent sentinel to it all, and make sure the Saviors stay gone, and the horsemen stay dead.

It isn't his destiny, it isn't the rule of the world or the way he had imagined it. But that's life. And Rick is one of the living now. No longer a walking dead man.

Daryl huffs, kissing Rick again. "Get ready for a long ride," he says.

Rick smiles, and settles back down by Daryl's side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe this story is over. It feels surreal. This is the ending I had always planned for, with a few twists and turns along the way. I've been thinking of this story since Negan first appeared on screen, so you can imagine how hard this is hitting me - it's been over a year now, and I want to thank each and every person who reviewed, commented, kudos'd, and nagged me to finish this piece.
> 
> The alternate endings will be posted once a week, most likely. There are three in total, I believe, so you can keep an eye out for them under this series. I think you'll agree with me that this is the best ending of them and I hope after reading the others you'll see why I went with this one.
> 
> If anyone has questions and wants to talk to me about headcanons for this ending, feel free to do so in the comments. I will answer every single one unless it's a question that will be answered in an alternate ending. This one is the gentlest and the happiest of them all by far (and kind of sappy but what can you do).
> 
> Thank you all for coming along for the ride. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I have. <3


End file.
